


Seventy Times Seven | 70x7

by steeely



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Auror Draco Malfoy, Azkaban, Complete, EWE, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Matchmaking Spell, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, SWW, Second War with Voldemort, Self-Harm, War, War Never Changes, did i say angst, dramione - Freeform, marriage law, whynotboth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:08:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26135533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steeely/pseuds/steeely
Summary: Draco is a war hero, a high-ranking Ministry Auror who’s been redeemed in the eyes of the public after defecting to The Order during the Second Wizarding War. Hermione is a disgraced criminal, locked away in Azkaban for her defiance of the new post-war Marriage Law. Draco makes it his mission to bring her home, but the war hasn't left either of them unscathed.If you can’t fight your own demons, fight someone else's.“Hermione had expected some level of resistance from Draco at her incarceration, but not to this extreme. He was unraveling himself while desperately trying to keep her together.”
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 97
Kudos: 328





	1. The First Visit

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back! Briefly! This has been sitting on my hard drive for too long, and I think its posting is long overdue. The fic is fully finished, clocking in at 7 chapters. I will be posting 1 chapter per week for the next 7 weeks. 
> 
> Stay safe and be kind, ya'll.

_Do you want to hear about the deal that I'm making?  
_ _You, it's you and me.  
_ -Placebo, _Running up that Hill_  
  


#### \- The First Visit -  
 _\- Undisclosed Island in the North Sea, United Kingdom, 200X -_

Draco stood outside the dark building that had inhabited the majority of his nightmares as a child. A cold drizzle was falling almost imperceptibly against the sharply cut shoulders of his robes as his eyes traveled across Akaban’s spiked buttresses and soaring archways. They gave the impression of a building that was impossibly taller than it was wide, despite his knowledge of the magically enlarged and expanded rooms within. The stone of the building was slick with rain and seemed to absorb all light in the immediate area, somehow giving the fortress the appearance of being both the darkest and brightest part of the desolate landscape. Draco’s eye couldn’t help but be drawn to it, and while he suspected that a good deal of the structure’s imposing appearance had to do with its gothic 15th century architecture, he couldn’t deny the sickening feeling of Dark Arts magic that still seeped from its walls.

A barely-suppressed shiver ran down his spine as he tried not to think about the last time he had stood before the most dreaded prison in the wizarding world. He pulled his collar tighter against his neck to combat both the rain and his thoughts but the memory lashed out at him regardless--his father, Lucius Malfoy of nearly a decade ago, tugging his own collar against his neck just as Draco did now.

 _“The Dark Lord has spoken to me, Narcissa, he whispers in my ears when I sleep--the plans he has, oh the plans!”_ Draco’s father ranted, the Malfoy signet ring flashing viciously from its place on his hand as he tugged at the ragged collar around his neck. Narcissa dazedly nodded along to placate her husband, clearly lost. A barely sixteen year old Draco held his mother’s arm in an iron grip, feeling her hands shake. He had counted down the seconds to when they could leave.

 _“The Dark Lord has whispered, has schemed, and oh Draco--”_ Lucius again tugged his collar closer to his neck, his breath fogging in front of him as he fixed his only son with an unsettlingly lucid stare, _“the plans he has for you!”_

Draco’s own hand froze at his collar and disappeared back into his robes.

“Sir? Sir, are you okay?” A thin-faced Auror leaned into view, fidgeting with the closure of his cloak. 

“Fine.” Draco responded gruffly, pulling his senses back to the present as he realized that he had been staring up at the dark prison for several long moments.

“Just through here . . . er--sir.” The Auror gestured to the fortress’ heavy doors. Draco gave his shoulders a shake to dislodge the raindrops that had collected and pulled back his cloak to maneuver through the mud with his cane as he gave the Auror a curt nod in the direction of the entrance.

“Lead the way.”

Another bearded Auror he didn’t recognize was positioned by the thick oak doors, their wood just as black as the medieval stone architecture that loomed above. He waited silently as the doors and a series of metal gates opened laboriously before him, several Aurors moving their wands in concert with each other to coordinate the task. 

“You’ll forgive the lads if some of ‘em get a bit tongue tied.” The bearded Auror said lowly to Draco as they watched yet another iron gate covered in thick rivets be coaxed aside. This Auror was older; weathered wrinkles set deep grooves in his face and his beard covered scars across his jaw, “‘S not every day they meet a war hero.”

Draco sucked in his cheek, biting back a response. The retort scraped to the forefront of his mind, however, in time with the sound of heavy metal locks disengaging from Azkeban’s walls.

_All the heroes died in the war._

Draco was escorted through the prison by a small unit of Aurors, none of which he recognized, and all of which had a similar sickly pallor to their complexion and twitchiness of movement. He could feel their eyes darting over to assess him periodically, and resolutely tried to ignore their attention despite the creeping unease of the prison. They were at least more preferable company than the guards that used to haunt the grounds--thank Salazar that Minister Shacklebolt had done away with those walking executioners. Yet despite their absence, Draco could not help but feel that several centuries of Dementor guards had left their mark on Azkaban’s very soil.

The inside of the fortress seemed to swallow the sound of the group’s footsteps, which should have been echoing in the cavernous antechambers and narrow hallways. Their scuffling was just as muted when the lead Auror swung out his arm at the last moment to stop the group from getting hit by an expanse of stone as it suddenly skid out in front of them and slid heavily up the wall. The rooms in Azkaban were eternally shifting around themselves like a giant puzzle, making the group’s route long and circuitous. The primary function of the shifting was to disorient prisoners and confuse would-be escapees, the secondary effect being that it produced an ambient grinding noise of stone-on-stone that made it seem as if the prison itself were growling lowly from somewhere deep in its gut. 

Draco’s metal-tipped cane faintly tapped against the ground as they ascended a set of dusty stairs that had risen into view at the last landing, emerging from the inky darkness with a scraping protest. An Auror wearing an eyepatch near the front of the group held aloft a lantern, but the thin light it cast barely fought back the oppressive shadows. The ancient walls of Azkaban were long ago warded against wand usage, making it futile to cast a _Lumos_. In here, without the help of Dementors, the Aurors had resorted to Muggle means for illumination.

“Her room’s just down this way, sir.” The thin-faced Auror from before reported in an almost-whisper. Try as he might, Draco’s internal compass had been helplessly spun during their trek through the prison depths, and he silently wondered what kind of magic the Auror guards must use to navigate. He’d have to ask Shacklebolt tomorrow when he got back to the Ministry.

As they neared the prisoner’s room, Draco could make out a delicate light trickling through the bars at the door and reaching diagonally across the uneven stone floor before being cut off abruptly by the darkness. Draco came to a halt as his boots toed the edge of the feeble light. He gestured a command at the guards out of habit, raising his fist in a _hold_ , and they immediately obeyed.

“Wait here. I’ll go in alone.” Draco murmured, continuing forward as the interrupted light cast uneven shadows across his features. He came to a stop at attention in front of the cell door, facing the room inside with both hands resting on top of his cane.

A woman was huddled against the wall nearest to the door, doubled over a basin that was fixed crookedly to the wall. She braced her arms against the sides of the sink and heaved, breathing ragged as her fingers flexed and her knuckles turned white. From Draco’s angle, he could see the perspiration bead at her temples as she coughed. Her hair was tangled and Draco watched as the woman heaved again, her back curving dependently into the porcelain sink before he smelled the sticky-sweet stench of bile as she spat, shakily leaning away from the fixture. Finally, her eyes dragged over to the bars behind which Draco stood.

“Hello, Granger.” Draco said slowly. Hermione looked sleepless and haggard. Her strong, square jaw was tight under pale features, and as he watched her already thin lips strained into a thinner white line—whether from the sight of him or from her previous physical effort he didn’t know. Her hair was slick across her forehead and neck, strands escaping from an overused hair tie. The purple smudges under her eyes were even more prominent against the parlor of her skin, usually at least somewhat masked by her freckled complexion. 

“Hello, General.” Hermione greeted hoarsely, wiping the back of her hand across her mouth. She wielded the nickname as a threat, and he willed himself not to flinch at it. Her eyes looked thin and watery, red-rimmed as if blinking would tear them, yet piercing through him as they always did.

“Are you enjoying your . . .” Draco paused, making a point to survey the small room. A flimsy looking cot was pushed against the wall opposite the door. To the right stood a wooden table and chair, made of barely more than scrap material. To the left of the room stood a privacy screen--presumably blocking the toilet from view--and the crooked sink that Hermione still leaned against. Several shelves bolted above the bed held a few ragged books that were carefully arranged and on the table sat a squat clock and empty vase. He raised an eyebrow, “Accommodations?”

“They try to treat me better than the other prisoners.” Hermione said, her piercing gaze still on Draco--had she even blinked? “Although I tell them not to.”

“You should at least tell them to bring you better books.” Draco scoffed, making a show of squinting through the bars, “ _Where There's a Wand, There's a Way_ is hardly appropriate, given the circumstances--”

“Why are you here.” Hermione interrupted, flatly. Her tone was barely a question as she crossed her arms across her chest.

“Can I not visit an old war comrade in my spare time?” Draco deflected with years of practiced ease and the twitch of a smirk he knew made her see red. She barely seemed to notice.

“It’s noon on a Thursday.” Hermione replied, glancing briefly at the dingy clock. “You’re either here on official Ministry business or very, very lost.”

“Neither, Miss. Granger.” Draco said loftily as he brushed imaginary dirt off of his shoulder, “Perhaps I simply enjoy wandering dark and most likely _extremely_ -fucking-cursed buildings, built by definitely-insane and hopefully-dead wizards from centuries ago. My family owns several of them.”

“Leave me alone, Malfoy.” This had earned Draco an eyeroll and he smirked, pressing his advantage,

“I don’t think I will. Perhaps I’ve missed your company after spending several years figuratively and literally chained to your side, courtesy of The Order. Maybe the year apart has been too much for my fragile sense of self.” He was blatantly attempting to get a rise from Hermione at this point; their years spent together fighting for The Order of the Phoenix had been less than idyllic.

“I highly doubt that.” Hermione snorted.

“And I highly doubt you haven’t missed me.” Draco persisted.

“Missed what? Probing questions and your incessant presence every time I don't want you around? That hasn't seemed to change much.” Hermione glared at him, one hand on her hip in a signature Granger-stance. Draco’s pulse thrummed in satisfaction at the sight, a welcome change from her earlier huddled silhouette.

“I was thinking more along the lines of ‘dashing good looks and charm’, but you compliment me far more.” 

“Is that what you came here for? An ego boost? Wanted to come see how far ‘the Lioness of Gryffindor’ has fallen?” She spat, spitefully quoting one of the headlines that had circulated in Wizarding newspapers for weeks after her incarceration.

“And here I thought we were friends.” Draco began, his voice losing it’s chaotic joviality and taking on more of an edge as he spoke, fingers gripping the head of his cane tight, “Should friends not keep in touch? I’ve barely seen you since Shacklebolt’s appointment to Minister of Magic. I had to find out you were in this Merlin-forsaken place from him.”

“I don’t have to tell you everything, Malfoy.” Her face was stony and serious, brow pulled tight in a low, dark line over her bright eyes. The sight stirred something in Draco, her expression superimposed itself itself over an identical memory of his,

 _“I have to tell you something, Malfoy.”_ Hermione--of only four or five years ago but who looked considerably younger than the woman standing before him now--gripped his left wrist tightly, her fingers slipping under the enchanted steel manacle that encircled his wrist. A matching manacle was closed around her right wrist, featureless and irremovable. It was the best defense The Order could come up with to keep Draco from counter-defecting, he knew too much about either side.

 _“What is it, Granger?”_ Draco hissed in a hushed tone, making a concentrated effort not to squirm away from her touch. They were deep in enemy territory, tasked with clearing out what they thought had been an abandoned village, only to find themselves pinned down and outnumbered by a group of Death eaters who hadn’t yet vacated.

 _“In our second year at Hogwarts, I stole a necklace of my mothers to bring with me back to school. I missed her and--and wanted something of hers--she always thought she had lost it.”_ Hermione confessed to him with a deathly serious expression on her face.

 _“Why are you telling me this?”_ He asked, the need to escape her touch halted by his confusion.

_“If I die tonight, I just needed to tell someone. I just--just need someone to know.”_

“You used to.” Draco of the present responded flatly, finding that his hand had drifted up to rest on his left wrist, where McGonnagal’s enchanted handcuff had sat for a year of his life. 

Hermione’s eyes darkened dangerously, “And you didn’t always used to be a General.”

“Of that, I am well aware.” Draco waved her comment off, resolved to dig back into the familiar territory of pressing Hermione’s buttons, 

“But you were always part of the leadership though, weren’t you? In school, a Prefect; in The Order, a Commander. No doubt if we had been allowed a normal eighth year you would have been the Head Girl as well. So you can imagine people’s surprise when they find out that you’ve ended up in Azkaban, among the ranks of Death Eaters that you and I helped put away.” A sardonic smirk tugged at the corner of Draco’s cheek as Hermione’s expression soured even further,

“Malfoy--will you _just_ get the hell out of here?” She snarled, both hands flying to her hips in their familiarly indignant way.

“You could--how did you so eloquently put it?-- _just get the hell out_ as well, Granger.” Draco said triumphantly, “You’re not like the other prisoners here.”

“Yes, I am. I am actively breaking Ministry law by ignoring a mandatory decree. I refuse to submit, and so, I have been imprisoned.” Hermione replied indignantly, her eyes alight and color blooming to her cheeks as she stared Draco down. 

“And yet, the Minister was willing to make an exception for you. Shacklebolt--”

“I know what Shacklebolt said! And it’s not _fair!_ ” Hermione left her position at the sink and angrily stomped over the the cell door, glaring up at Draco through the bars as she spoke, “He said that I could be exempt--but why should I be free while everyone that I love is forced into unhappy, loveless, _assigned_ marriages? Why should I be above the Marriage Law because--because I was part of Order leadership? Because my best friend is Harry Potter?! None of that--”

“You realize that both Potter and Weasley were also offered exemptions, right?” Draco ran a gloved hand through his hair, struggling to calm the rise of opposition that internally stirred to meet Hermione’s aggression. It wasn’t a new feeling, and he fought to reign in his agitation.

“And they both turned Shacklebolt down and chose to comply with Ministry Law. I just decided to choose the third option--refusing both Shacklebolt and the Ministry. And as per Ministry Law, any wizard who actively disobeys a decree from the Minister is immediately jailed until compliance or the law is repealed. Thus--” Hermione gestured at her surroundings with a flutter of her fingers, “here I stay.”

A tense silence stretched between them as they stared at each other across 7 centimeter thick iron bars. Hermione’s face was steady and Draco fought to keep his impassive as he cataloged the deep lines on either side of her downturned mouth--lines premature for her age, brought on by a war dragged out for too many years at the cost of too many lives. He knew his face also held the telltale signs of aging gained both on and off the battlefield. Grey streaks accompanied the blonde in his hair and he now walked with a permanent limp, aided by a cane that so tormentingly reminded him of-- 

He blinked rapidly to dispel the thought and saw Hermione’s brow crease in concern, her eyes tracking across his face as she read his features with ease. Before she could open her mouth to question him, Draco interrupted quickly,

“Did you know you’re the only prisoner in the history of Azkaban to be held _voluntarily_?” Draco underlined his irritation with a sharp tap of his cane against the floor. Internally he flinched, hearing his father do the same.

 _“That is enough, boy.”_ Lucious snarled in Draco’s mind as he forcefully tapped his silver cane on the ground, _“Do you know how honored we are to have the Dark Lord choose to stay in_ our _house? To serve him and prove the Malfoy name stands for loyalty above all else? Do you think--”_

But Hermione tilted her head to look up at him, indignation narrowing her features as she unknowingly echoed his father’s words in a calm, low tone, “Do you think I want to be here? Do you think I want to get sick in a dark corner while the world that _I helped save_ continues to exist outside these walls? Do you think I fought for years in a god-forsaken war for _this?_ ”

“Would it really be worse living with me?” Draco’s question rang loudly in his ears and seemed to bounce dully off the surrounding stone. The words had been slung carelessly and he watched regretfully as Hermione’s eyes went wide at the question, helpless but to hear her answer,

“I don’t care what the law says--or the matchmaking spell.” Hermione’s voice was pitched higher now, and her lip quivered once before stilling, “I can’t marry you.”

Draco grimaced as the words dug into his chest, recarving tracts of months-old wounds. He looked away, suddenly finding the claustrophobic room and Hermione’s small frame unbearable to tolerate any longer, “We’re done here, then.”

As he turned to leave, eyes fixed on the light cast on the floor through the bars, Hermione’s hand shot out between them and grabbed his left wrist with surprising strength.

“I know you, Malfoy.” Hermione spoke quickly, her fingers digging into his arm, gripping his old scars tightly, “I fought in a war beside you for years, through mud and smoke. I slept beside you in too-small cots and under bloody cloaks. I have healed your wounds and seen your magic fail. I was there the night you defected. And I am telling you now; do not come back here.”

She released him suddenly and stepped back from the bars, the light from the cell seemed to dim as she did. Hot anger boiled in his gut as he bit hard on the inside of his cheek, refusing to respond, and swung into the dark back towards the skittish Aurors waiting in the growling hallway.

She was wrong. She was stupid. She was going to rot in this Merlin-forsaken hole. His father’s voice swirled in his head,

_\--Plans for you, Draco. The Malfoy name stands for loyalty and you will be the one to prove it._

Hermione Granger didn't know anything.


	2. The Second Visit

- _The Second Visit -  
\- Undisclosed Island in the North Sea, United Kingdom, 200X -_

Time was very familiar to Hermione Granger.

In her third year of school she had been given special permission from the Ministry to own a Time-Turner in order to attend concurrent classes. During that year she had gotten used to the exhaustion of a day stretching on for eternity, the tirelessness of trying to count hours in her head, and the prickling feeling that traveling through time produced across her skin. She understood that time was not linear, that complex magic could bend and wrap it to her will and that it did not necessarily march onwards at the same pace for eternity. She had wielded Time-Turner magic in the palm of her hand at Hogwarts and had seen it go horribly awry in the Department of Mysteries.

How time moved inside of Azkaban was a different experience altogether.

Hermione was grateful for the books the guards had given her, despite the fact that she had read them all before. She re-read them to pass the time until she found that words couldn't keep her focus; she intermittently fell in and out of sleep mid-sentence. Time seemed to dilate strangely around her, in no pattern that she could discern, and her internal clock no longer seemed to follow any kind of regular sleep schedule. Some days felt like she had barely been awake for a few minutes before falling asleep again, other days felt like she had been awake for weeks on end. The hands on her clock seemed to spin every time she blinked. She grew apathetic toward reading.

At times her cell felt hot and sticky, then cold as ice as the room shifted, the air itself changing on a dime. The incessant growling of the prison seemed to hum and swell around her at random-sometimes it was a whisper and sometimes it was as if she were indeed living in the belly of a great immortal beast.

Old and new conversations replayed in her head until she could no longer tell which was real. She ate meals although she didn't remember doing so. She longed for sunlight.

Until finally through the daze returned Draco.

"Hello, Granger." The silver and black form that she had at first mistaken for a ghost asked. She waited several long moments before it spoke again, "Oh have I caught you at a bad time? I'm sorry, I didn't realize you'd be sleeping at—half two in the afternoon."

The ghost—which was _definitely_ Draco—sighed dramatically.

"I'm right here you ferret." Hermione croaked, her throat dry with misuse. As she raised a hand to her mouth to clear her throat, time seemed to physically snap back in place around her; a shimmer gliding across her vision. She blinked and it was gone.

"Thank Merlin, here I was fearing you'd overslept." Draco's voice was laced with irony.

"Don't you have a job or—something?" Hermione rubbed at her eyes, trying to clear the last bit of haze in her head under the cover of a scowl,

"I'm an Auror now or don't you remember?" Draco asked suspiciously as Hermione squinted at him.

"Hard to forget when you make it a habit of reminding everyone." Hermione grumbled, swinging her legs around to sit up and plant her feet against the cool stone of the floor.

"Can I come in if I promise to stop reminding you I'm an elite, battle-hardened Auror with some of the highest level security clearance in the Ministry?" Draco asked, picking invisible dust off his lapel.

"No."

"Well then, _might_ I remind you that I am one of a select few Aurors in the Ministry to be appointed with no formal training? You know-battle-hardened member-of-The-Order and all that."

"You're an arse, Malfoy." Hermione scrubbed at her face with her hand, "What are you doing here?"

"Just came to see if Azkaban had redecorated at all in the past month. I stand woefully underwhelmed. At _least_ put something in that pathetic vase. It looks tragic just sitting there unfulfilled." He motioned to the little vase on the table to her left, but her brain was still trying to process his last sentence.

"Did you say a month?" Hermione mumbled but Draco breezed past her question,

"Honestly Granger, it's as if you enjoy living in squalor. Too many Order safehouses must have done you in over the years." He tutted over-dramatically.

" _Leave_ , Malfoy. Now." Hermione said, resting her elbows on her knees, and rubbing a hand across her clammy forehead as she focused on her feet. Had it really been a month?

"Do you remember that horrid safehouse in Reading we kept getting assigned to on lookout rotation by McGonnagal?" Draco asked lightly. She could feel his eyes on her and hear the forced gaiety in his voice, as if reminiscing about wartime were something he looked back fondly on and not something that hollowed out his core with a sharp edge.

"I remember Parkinson bleeding out on that kitchen table, begging for you to put her out of her misery." Hermione said slowly, cutting her eyes up at Draco over her hand. She knew it was a low blow but didn't care, watching the direct hit land as Draco blinked softly twice, his features slipping into an impassive mask.

"I remember Justin in the front bedroom, tormented by night terrors and keeping the entire house awake with his screaming. I remember Ginny trying to wash the two day-old blood off herself in the hallway bathroom. I remember Katie crying in the kitchen, night after night, when Lavender went missing."

"Granger—" Hermione cut off Draco's warning, barreling on,

"I remember midnight evacuations. Screams in the dark, the smoke. I remember you, showing up to The Order's last safe place with a mangled arm, babbling about Voldemort's next big raid as you dripped blood across the carpet-"

" ** _Enough_** _!_ " Draco yelled, slamming the side of his fist against the cell bars suddenly, the force of his anger causing Hermione to physically flinch. Yet she held his fiery gaze even as several moments later a growl from deep within the prison rolled through the room. Draco's nostrils flared angrily as he breathed, his hair disheveled, one cheek sucked in out of anger. They glared at each other in a silent stalemate.

Hermione knew it was fighting dirty to provoke him, wielding the weakest moments in his life as weapons. She was backed into a corner though, trapped both in a cell and in the present-ripped painfully back into reality instead of the numbing space between seconds she had become accustomed to. If the war had taught her anything it was to scrape and wield whatever she could to her advantage, and words had always been her forte.

The memories were double-edged however, and a wave of nausea rolled through her. She fought to keep her glare steady.

"Leave me alone." She whispered, breaking the silence.

"No." Draco growled, and yanked up the sleeve of his left arm to reveal a nonsensical pattern of knotted flesh. What was once a living tattoo of a skull and snake, physical proof of having pledged a life of loyalty to Voldemort, was now a mess of scar tissue. Deep lines criss-crossed the entirety of the inside of his left arm, the angriest of which ran from the crook of his elbow down to his wrist, making sure that the old tattoo would never make sense again.

"I remember that night too," He spoke lowly, pressing his arm through the bars to force Hermione to see it—as if she could look away, "I remember taking the knife to my skin and carving up my Dark Mark so the Dark Lord couldn't track me. I remember memorizing Death Eater plans and sneaking secrets out of my family home—which had turned into a twisted war camp—in the dead of night.

"I also remember you believing me." At this, Draco's eyes snapped up from the self-inflicted wound spanning his arm to lock eyes with Hermione's again.

"Malfoy—" She started, but the blonde barreled on,

"Out of all the Order members who were there—old classmates, professors—you were the one who stepped forward, who asked them to listen. Out of everyone, you were the only one who believed I was telling the truth."

"I believed conditions were horrible enough to make you defect." Hermione's throat was dry.

"Why?" Draco murmured.

"What?" Hermione asked, her eyes helplessly drawn back to his ruined mark.

"Why did you believe me?" His knuckles turned white as he clenched his fist, his arm held out to her as if in an offering or a challenge.

"You showed up at an Order safehouse you should never have known about, with information about plans for a Death Eater raid that was _far_ above your paygrade." She said slowly.

"And?"

"You had made such a mess of your arm that night, not even magic could reverse it." Hermione blinked against the memory of a pale blonde leaning against the doorframe, blood covering the left side of his body and practically pouring onto the front steps of the lopsided little Victorian home. Thirty members of The Order had crammed into the foyer, too dumbstruck by his appearance to let him inside. He had been so pale, she remembered thinking, that it hardly seemed likely his body even contained that much blood in the first place.

"And?"

"And you didn't want to fight anymore. You wanted out." Hermione pulled her legs against her chest where she sat in the bed. A chill had settled across the cell.

Draco was silent for a long moment, assessing Hermione. _As silent as a ghost_ she thought tangentially, her mind beginning to slip through the time between her breathes, through the gaps in the ancient stone below-

"You were the only one I trusted in the entire Order, Granger." Draco said quietly, but it was enough to pull her back to the present. "You were the only one I thought wasn't going to murder me in my sleep—even if my odds were low. When McGonagall and Lupin decided to . . . put me in your care, I thought at least I had a better chance of surviving by your side than waking up to the wrong end of a wand from a so-called comrade."

"I still hated you." Hermione croaked, "For a long time."

"I know."

"I hated not being able to escape you—when McGonagall charmed us together with those manacles." She said, squeezing her legs tightly against herself. Draco barked out a harsh, humorless laugh.

"The manacles made it all worse. That's when people really got creative with the nicknames." He growled, his voice harsh in the dim light.

"Minerv—McGonagall, she was just trying to do what was right for the Order." Hermione said defensively, feeling the urge to justify her favorite professor's actions.

"She was wrong though." Draco's sudden casual tone caused Hermione to frown,

"About you being a flight risk?" She asked suspiciously.

"I didn't want out of the war." He said simply, "I wanted to fight. But I wanted freedom and a life where I had a say in what happened to it—where I had a _choice._ Being a Death Eater meant the death of free will; the only will was the Dark Lord's.

"I understand why you're doing this, Granger. I've been there. But I didn't choose to just sit the war out because I didn't like my options," His hands wrapped around the cell bars as if they were Hermione's shoulders that he could shake, "I carved that fucking asshole out of my blood with my own hands and barreled into the Order's _literal_ lion den because they had a better chance of giving me my freedom."

Hermione was shaking her head, "It isn't like that—"

"—It _is_ like that! Granger, you're just sitting back while your own life passes by! I've seen you bleed and get back up again." He swept a hand down his face in anger, tugging his fingers against his jaw in an agitated manner, "I need you to—"

Draco cut himself off, flinching as he quickly dropped his hand from his face, flexing his fingers by his side.

Hermione frowned, watching Dracio's odd motions closely, "What was that?"

"Nothing—" He faltered, "Nevermind, look Granger, you just—"

"No Malfoy, no." Hermione could feel hazy tugging at the base of her eyelids again, heavy, coaxing her down into what would surely be a lulled sleep and wanting Draco's voice to stop haunting her, "You defecting to the Order has nothing to do with me staying in Azkaban. There was hope for you with the Order. There's nothing for me out there."

"Granger—"

"Everything is a mess now, everything we fought for is twisted and warped. I used my magic to kill other human beings. People are dead—my _friends_ are dead. Do you know what it feels like to be a muggle?" She asked sharply, directionless spite bubbling up behind her words, "To not even realize there was a possibility that magic existed and then suddenly waking up to news that it was real? That was my life, Malfoy. I got to learn and wield magical spells I grew up thinking were make-believe. And then—then I have to use this . . . _gift_ that I've been given to kill people. It doesn't matter that they were evil or trying to hurt me, or Harry, or—they made me turn this wonderful, fantastical gift against _people_. I—I want to forget."

The words slipped from her mouth in a jumble and she felt as if each word she spoke stole more and more energy from her. Her hands lay limply in her lap, the memory of holding a wand nothing more than a wisp across her fingers.

"You want to forget about magic?" Draco's forehead was creased, but in confusion or worry she couldn't tell. Her vision was beginning to get fuzzy around the edges and she found that she was unconcerned.

"Maybe. I don't know." She shook her head, "It's just . . . it's all tainted now. Wrong."

"They say the killing curse—" Draco started slowly, methodically re-buttoning the cufflinks around his left wrist. Hermione shook her head, blurring her vision more with each move and clamping her hands over her ears,

"Stop. I don't want to talk about it, I'm done Malfoy."

"Hey, Granger—" He was grabbing the bars again but Hermione closed her eyes against him as well.

"I'm done. I don't want to talk anymore." A swimming sensation had taken a hold of her limbs, and she again felt unconcerned, even as she was aware of Draco banging against the bars of her cell as guardsmen's footsteps approached.

"Look at me Granger! Grange—get off me you fuck—" Somewhere far off, a struggle was happening, the scuffle of feet, the unmistakable _whap_ of a fist hitting a jaw. Miles away, a groan, more shouts.

 _Sir if you would just_ —

_Granger, I'm not fucking done!_

_Sir, please_ —

**_Stupefy!_ **

And it was silent. Footsteps dissolved into the white noise buzzing in her head and Hermione laid back and let time swallow her up again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the love on the first chapter, guys! I think the update day for this fic will be Fridays until it's finished.
> 
> Hermione really did not get nearly enough screen time in the books huh? Especially the last one where they just gloss over the fact she ERASED her own parent's memories of her to save them? That girl's got some damage. I love her, hope you all do too.


	3. The Third Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the encouraging comments so far! Hope ya'll like your angst.  
> See you next Friday <3

####    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
- _The Third Visit -  
__\- Undisclosed Island in the North Sea, United Kingdom, 200X -_

Once again, Draco found himself voluntarily venturing deep into Azkaban’s pit. Flanked by standoffish pale Aurors and the ever-present threatening darkness, Draco inexplicably found his mind pulled back to his least favorite Hogwarts subject; Muggle Studies. One subject that he had been loath to admit fascinated him was muggles’ depictions of the afterlife. There was a book Professor Burbage had assigned them readings from, and while Draco had made a big show of being offended at being forced to read “inferior” muggle fiction, he secretly slid the parchment into his bag to read in the West Tower that night by the light of his wand.

The text had been Dante’s-something, about a man who was led down through ten circles of hell by a reluctant guide. In the final circle of hell was a huge, three-headed muggle demon encased in ice up to the waist. A deep-rooted growl of stone-on-stone reverberated from somewhere deep within Azkaban and Draco thought that it would be easy to believe that it was Dante’s demon that was living in the heart of this prison. 

The guards wordlessly led him down another winding staircase before he saw the now-familiar yellowed light creeping across the ground from Hermione’s cell. The guards kept their distance as Draco steeled himself and rapped the metal of his cane against the magically reinforced iron bars.

“Good morning sunshine, this is your--” He paused dramatically to check the squat clock on her table but it was missing, “--afternoon wake up call! It’s time to check out now, the staff says you’ve far overstayed your welcome.”

There was movement from the bed where Hermione was curled up under a flimsy sheet. Draco frowned, only able to see the curve of her spine and a tangle of hair. 

“Granger? Up and at ‘em. Don’t you want to know how The Boy Who Lived’s wedding went?” Draco produced a copy of the Daily Prophet from under his cloak and waved it audibly, “ _Harry Potter: The Boy Who Said ‘I Do’_. Horrendous headline, don’t you think?”

At the mention of her childhood friend, there was a stirring. A clearly groggy Hermione groaned and slowly propped herself up in bed, facing away from the cell’s entrance where Draco stood. He smiled satisfactorily to himself, but his triumph was short lived. 

“Did you say Harry?” Hermione’s voice was thick with sleep, and when she tried clearing her throat fell into a coughing fit that wracked her entire body. Draco bit down his concern in favour of a plea,

“I did indeed, Potter’s got a front page spread--wedding of the century they’re calling it, says there hasn’t been a bigger spectacle since Celestina Warbeck and Irving Warble’s nuptials, but that’s bollocks because some of the old Black weddings cost about half of Gringots.”

Hermione had turned in bed to face him, wiping sleep from her eyes and leaning heavily on an elbow to prop herself up. She looked even worse than last time. Draco was thankful that his status with the Ministry allowed him to return after the scuffle he had gotten into with the guards, but it had still been a month since he last saw Hermione and she was thinner and paler than he had ever seen her, garish bruises blossoming under each eye.

“Let me see.” She croaked, still blinking hard against the light and pushing sleep-tangled hair from her face.

“For the low, low price of entrance into your cell, you can have this,” Draco brandished the paper with a flare, holding up each corner between pinched fingers so that Hermione could see the full front page spread, “a single Daily Prophet newspaper that wizarding critics have called _‘a lovely window into the wizarding world at large’_ and _‘adequate’_.”

“No.” Hermione still seemed to be having trouble focusing and Draco frowned, lowering the paper. She hesitantly slid her legs out from under the blanket and tested her feet against the ground.

“Granger . . .” Draco began as she stood unsteadily, swaying slightly.

“Save it.” She mumbled, “You’re not getting in and the guards will make sure there’s a repeat of last time if you try.”

“Not that, Granger, you don’t look well--”

“I’m in _prison_.” Hermione replied gruffly, reaching the other side of the cell bars and leaning against them with a forearm to steady herself, “You’re not exactly going to find me fat and happy. Now let me see that.”

Helplessly, Draco passed the wizarding newspaper through the bars as he cataloged Hermione’s appearance from close up. Angry purple splotches swirled under each of her eyes and premature lines bunched at the folds of her turned-down mouth, more pronounced than a month ago. Her unruly hair wasn’t nearly as voluminous as it should have been, her curls limp and weighted. The newspaper shook slightly as she held it.

There was a translucent paleness to her skin that jarringly reminded Draco of his own sixth year at Hogwarts--she was too pale to be eating and sleeping properly. His stomach turned and he felt nauseous.

“Granger--” Draco began, but was interrupted at the first note of concern in his voice.

“Not now.” Hermione mumbled as her eyes hungrily darted across the newspaper in front of her, taking in the image of her best friend whom she hadn’t seen in months. Even Draco could admit that the photo of his once-rival was handsome; Potter and his bride Daphne Greengrass stood outside the Ministry, arm in arm as they waved to a cheering crowd. Daphne was holding a huge bouquet of white roses that matched the perfect curls of her nearly platinum blonde hair. The photo looped as Daphne would glance up shyly at her new husband before looking away right at the moment that Potter looked over at her, Daphne’s blush blooming and disappearing over and over again across the page. But it was Potter whom Draco could tell Hermione was focused on, nervously pushing up his glasses in the face of overwhelming media attention. Below the image was plastered the bold caption; _Wizarding hero scores 90% compatibility with his true love._

“Did he--was he--” Hermione choked and cleared her throat, a hand fluttering to her chest.

“Daphne’s a good person.” Draco tried his best to sound soothing, “Her younger sister’s a bit of a mess, but Daph was always a sweetheart. Makes sense the matchmaking spell put them together; she and Potter can be banally saccharine together for the rest of time.”

Hermione choked again and Draco winced--perhaps not as soothing as he hoped.

“W-Was it a nice wedding?” She asked, her voice sounding smaller than he had ever heard it before. 

“It was. Weasley, Weasley’s brother, and Longbottom were the best men. The ceremony was in the Ministry’s Atrium, but it hardly looked like an office--everything was done up in white and gold.” Draco recounted quickly, eyeing how the pages of the newspaper shook even more unsteadily in her hands. 

“Did you attend?” Hermione’s voice was a whisper.

“I did.”

“How big was it?”

“Granger--” Draco began reluctantly.

“How many people were there?” She pressed, despite the tremor in her voice. 

“Seemed like every wizard in Britain was there.” Draco watched helplessly as his words landed a regretful blow; Hermione seemed to crumple in on herself with a loud sob, the paper crinkling as her hands curled in against her chest. 

“He’d be here, you know.” Draco said quickly, unable to do anything but wrap a hand around one of the iron bars of her cell door, “Potter--he wants to visit but can’t, the optics of it are horrible. The press doesn’t bat an eye if I, Death Eater turncoat and shady resistance fighter, take a few trips into Azkaban but Potter’s the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Defeat-Voldemort and the new face of the Ministry’s Marriage Law. It’s bollocks, but . . . he can’t be seen sympathizing with prisoners of the state.”

“I know--” Hermione squeaked in a high voice, hiccuping as tears rolled down her cheeks, “I know what I signed up for when I turned Shacklebolt down and those bars swung shut behind me last month.”

“You mean six months ago.” Draco corrected reflexively, a moment before catching the confusion flash across Hermione’s eyes. It took only a moment more for comprehension to dawn in his.

“What month is it, Granger.” He asked, lowly. Hermione had gone deathly still on the opposite side of the bars. 

“I--”

“What. Month.” 

“It’s, ah--”

“It’s on the newspaper, Granger. You can just cheat.” He could feel the heat rising behind his eyes as hers widened in distress,

“This is unnecessary--”

“Not if you could remember.”

“Malfoy, I don’t know.” She said with irritation before her voice cracked, “Look, I’m tired--”

“That’s the problem!” Draco shouted, startling Hermione as he dug his nails into the cell bar between them, “You’re tired all the time, right? Losing track of what day it is? Losing your grip on the surface of the Earth? I’ve seen this before, Granger! I spent half my childhood here, visiting my own family!”

“This is--completely different--” Hermione choked out but Draco was intent, pressing himself against the other side of the bars, iron digging into his cheek,

“What’s at the bottom of the great lake?” He quizzed, baring his teeth.

“The Giant Squid.” Hermione scoffed, affronted, still trying to feign lucidity.

“What classes did we share in the third year?”

“We, uh, C-Care for Magical Creatures and . . . ah--”

“What spell did McGonagall use to lock us together with those cuffs?”

“I--I don’t, um--”

“What was the nickname that everyone in the Order called me?”

“It was my--my lapdog.”

“Which Order safehouse burnt down and forced you and I to carry Snape’s potions trunk through the woods?”

“I-I don’t know.”

“Where were we when that team of Death Eaters almost captured Hannah Abbott but you and I distracted them with a _Confringo_ and that hydrogen balloon?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who died when we were out on lookout rotation in Reading and missed the signs of a Death Eater raid before it was too late?”

“I said _I don’t know_ !” Hermione finally shouted, breaking the cyclical questioning as she slammed her fragile fist against the bars. “ _I don’t know,_ ok!” 

_“Parkinson!”_ Draco bellowed back, practically seeing red with anger, his hand raking through his hair and gathering a fistful of blonde. The motion stalled him as a memory broke through his exasperation, 

_“You good-for-nothing imbecile!”_ His father screamed at him, a hand raking through his hair as Draco found himself focusing on the spittle flying from his father’s mouth, disassociating from the demeaning tirade. He was standing in the dark study of his family home--his father’s study--rooted to the middle of the blood red carpet while his father reprimanded him, 

_“What kind of son are you? To disobey the orders of not only your father, but our Dark Lord? His will is our will and there is no room for disobedience, least of which from_ **_you_ ** _!”_

Draco found himself focusing on a spot off to his left that was a darker red than the rest of the carpet.

 _“The Malfoy name is synonymous with loyalty--loyalty to our Dark Lord. You are no son of mine if you are going to be such a disgrace.”_ He sneered, his gaze unable to focus on Draco, _“You are hardly fit to bear our family name.”_

He watched as a bead of sweat slowly crept down his father’s temple, following the groove of a bulging vein.

_“How else will we display our dedication and secure a spot in the new world that He will create for the future of us purebloods and our children--”_

Dried blood cracked off Draco’s hands as he flexed them and again his eyes slid over to the dark spot on the carpet beside him. It seemed to pulse and wobble, growing larger in his vision until it was all he could see. He realized that he had fallen down and his cheek was pressed against the musty, stained fixture of his family home, its fibers digging against his skin. He was dimly aware of his father’s continued lecturing above him as he closed his eyes against the expanse of red. 

_His will is not my will._ That was the last thought to echo in Draco’s mind before darkness swirled around him, ushering him mercifully into unconsciousness.

“Parkinson . . . “ Draco said weakly, dropping his hand from his head and finally leaning away from Hermione’s cell bars as he swayed on his feet. He felt utterly drained of energy, “Parkinson died in Reading.” 

Across from him, bright tears streaked down Hermione’s face, catching the light and reflecting it back at Draco. Below wide eyes, her hands tried to stifle gasping sobs.

“This place, Azkaban . . . it’s fucking with your head, Granger.” His voice broke.

“I know.” Hermione croaked hoarsely. She wiped at her tears for a moment and then--due to either his words or her acceptance of them--she crumpled before his eyes for the second time that day. Curling her shoulders away from Draco, she slid down along the cell bars until she sat on the stone floor, her back against them.

A wave of dizziness passed thorough Draco as he looked down at her, still hearing his father’s voice echo as if the elder Malfoy were standing behind him; 

_“The Malfoys stand for loyalty, duty, unwavering dedication--you are no son of mine!”_

“Granger . . . let me in.”

“No, Malfoy.” And it was Draco’s turn to slowly fold, lowering himself to the floor and leaning back against the bars on his side of the door. His cane lay haphazardly across his lap, futile against the press of defeat. They sat in silence for a while, Draco feeling the reverberations of Hermione’s hiccups and shaking breaths through the iron bars against his back. 

“I never thought I would survive the war.” Draco began, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears, “And even after . . . even after receiving a pardon from the Minister himself, I never expected to be accepted by society--this new society the Order had made, one that had been directly shaped by the horrors of the Dark Lord and his army. I thought I was always going to be the suspicious defector who deserves to be locked away here, in Azkaban--and to some people I still am.”

Draco closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the bars of her cell, “But to most of the wizarding world, I . . . I am a war hero. A general. I don’t deserve to have a high-ranking Auror job and be accepted by society. I deserve to be here, in Azkaban. It’s my birthright. _You_ deserve to be free.”

A silence stretched between them as Draco let his words sink in. He had always known he was destined to return to Azkaban, even after his father escaped, even after the Dark Lord’s defeat. He just thought their roles would have been reversed. 

“When I first found out about the Marriage Law,” Draco broke the silence again and suddenly felt a stillness from Hermione, as if she were holding her breath, “I felt bad for whichever poor sod was going to be forced to be my wife. My father . . .” Draco’s mouth grew dry and he attempted to clear his throat, “I will not be a good father. I would not make a good husband. 

“The Law was supposed to target any remaining pureblood sentiments left among the surviving Sacred 28 bloodlines. As a descendant of one of those families I would not be allowed to marry a pureblood but . . . that was the furthest thing from my mind. I wasn’t in any rush to perform the Matchmaking Spell. 

“I didn’t expect Shacklebolt to be the one to tell me who my match was.” Draco felt the itch of physical pain tug at his chest. Behind him, Hermione had stilled again, “He told me that you had matched with me, rejected his exemption offer, defied the law, and were to be jailed. He told me you had left that morning for Azkaban. I hadn’t seen you in weeks.”

Draco’s hands began to shake and he gripped the cane in his lap tightly, eyes shut against the darkness of the prison, “I went straight home . . . poured myself a glass of Ogden’s and tried the Matchmaking Spell-- _Diligo Deprendo_. Any two eligible wizards who score above a 75% match in compatibility are assigned to wed. Granger . . . we scored a 98%.”

There was silence between the two of them for several long moments. Hermione had known their compatibility the moment she performed the spell. Alone in his flat, Draco had sat and stared at the sparking green numbers hovering over the tip of his wand as above them an animated portrait of Hermione smiled mischievously at him. He had downed the rest of the Ogden’s after that. 

“I--I don’t know exactly how it works . . . I don’t know how it knew.” Draco admitted, “The spell was supposed to placate backlash against the Marriage Law, to make the matches more . . . palatable. I never expected . . .” Words failed him and Draco dug the heels of both his hands into his eye sockets, willing his brain to stop seeing the floating green 98% that had hovered above his wand that entire night he drank himself into oblivion.

“Earlier--” Hermione’s horse voice seemed to flutter hesitantly over his shoulder, wavering in the darkness, “Where did you go?”

“Where?” He asked, confused by her non-sequitur. 

“Earlier, when you were mad at me about not being able to remember--to remember Pansy. You just kind of stalled out, staring. Where did you go?”

A flash of his father’s angry face. Spittle flying, a vein throbbing. Draco’s veins throbbed behind his eyes and he opened them to see the dim yellowed light from Hermione’s cell spill out in strips across the stone of the prison, painting around the silhouetted outline of his shadow. Thick, darkened bars seemed to extend from his back, upwards and outwards to block the light.

“Granger, come home with me.” He asked with rocks in his throat.

“Malfoy--” 

“I can’t do this anymore, Granger. I can’t keep visiting family in Azkaban.” The rocks had turned into boulders and he could barely breathe around them. 

“We’re not family, Malfoy.” She whispered quietly.

“We were, in the Order.” Days spent pouring over maps and spells, ready to die for their cause. Nights spent huddled under blankets and battlefield ruins, sharing their deepest secrets. Furtive glances, brushing fingertips. “And we--we could be again.”

“Draco--” The hesitance in her voice was a physical weight he could feel. It was going to crush him.

“I have to go.” He said suddenly, overwhelmed, as he stood and quickly strode across the strips of shadow and light against the ground. They blurred in his vision, and he swiped a hand across his eyes to clear them, ignoring the wetness he found.

No one else should have to suffer under having the Malfoy name imposed upon them. 

His family name would die with him. He'd make sure of it.


	4. The Fourth Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to leave a kind comment, I love reading your reactions to the chapters. I think this one might be my favorite.  
> See you next Friday

####    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
- _The Fourth Visit -  
_ _\- Undisclosed Island in the North Sea, United Kingdom, 200X -_

There was one time, during the war, when Hermione, Katie Bell, Luna Lovegood, and Angelina Johnson had found homemade alcohol in one of the safehouse's dilapidated cellars. Moonshine, Katie had called it, and they had passed one of the dusty jars around the table until all of them were hopelessly drunk. It had been a much-needed night of reprieve from their usual high-alert, front line duties and when Draco had returned from setting up perimeter wards with Ernie MacMillan and Cormac McLaggen, they had found the four girls sloppily drunk across the kitchen. 

The homemade alcohol had been a product of fermentation and forgotten time, and Hermione had never been that drunk before--nor did she suspect she ever would be again. It was a different feeling than getting buzzed off of beer at The Hog’s Head Inn or the Firewhiskey they used to sneak into the common room which Hermione had always loudly disapproved of, yet guiltily partook in.

That kind of buzz had been a light and fuzzy blurring of her insides, radiating from her belly and extending to the tips of her fingers, the sweetness making her sleepy and putting her to an early bed every time she drank. The safehouse moonshine had skipped right past the sleepy buzzed phase she was used to and slammed her directly into a sticky drunk, turning Hermione’s movements slow and sloppy, and her view honey-tinted. It had hit her hard and fast, her head feeling like it was spinning through treacle by the time the boys joined them. 

Hermione could only remember that night in flashes now. She remembered most things in flashes these days.

_Angelina, Katie, and Hermione dissolving into giggles when Luna began hiccuping uncontrollably as she tries swearing to the boys they hadn’t been drinking._

_Draco taking a skeptical sniff of the jar of moonshine, his highbrow upbringing betraying him as he refuses to drink from a mason jar (“a what? A_ maison _jar?”), only giving in when Cormac took a swig and gave Draco a challenging stare._

_Katie, Angelina, Draco, and Cormac racing each other through a line of shots as Hermione struggles to open another jar of moonshine, blinking hard to focus her gaze on it._

_Ernie getting his hand stuck in an empty jar while attempting to fish out the alcohol-saturated cherries at the bottom as Angelina, Katie, and Hermione drunkenly sing old Gryffindor fight songs._

_Luna, dancing in a corner to her own humming as Cormac tries to coerce Angelina to dance with him. Hermione and Draco's eyes meet over the rims of the jars they’re sipping from, the alcohol tints Draco’s lips as the corner quirks up in a smirk._

_Agelina and Katie passionately making out against a sagging countertop while Ernie and Cormac whoop at the girls and clink glasses. Hermione attempts to whistle at them, giggling at how numb her lips feel._

_Hermione cheering on a drinking competition between Ernie and Cormac, faltering at the feeling of Draco’s hands drifting across her waist, steadying her drunken swaying as he passes behind her. She watches him continue out of the kitchen, he doesn’t look back._

_Hearing the telltale hushed tones and giggles of Angelina and Katy navigating the dark house towards one of the bedrooms as Hermione stumbles out of the kitchen, a hand braced against the wall to help steady herself._

_Hermione’s head spinning as strong arms press her against the peeling wallpaper in the hall by the bedrooms. Cormac’s sticky-sweet breath on her cheek as she wiggles uncomfortably under his strength._

_Cormac’s presence suddenly disappears as she sags against the wall for support, the entire hallway seems to tilt dangerously beneath her. A pale figure approaches her from the end of the hall, her eyelids are heavy._   
  
_Different arms around her now, hands holding her waist tightly, a familiar voice telling her to get to bed._

_Hermione tumbling clumsily into a bed as the world spins and she’s unable to stand any longer, feeling relief at being horizontal._

_Her familiar pale blonde walking towards the doorway._

_Her hand reaches and somehow finds his wrist. Fingers brush the scarred flesh there, “Stay.” She manages, blinking blearily up at him._

Spinning. 

Everything spins for her these days.

_The room is spinning and her head is spinning and his mouth is on hers and on hers and hers._

_He’s on her and she’s on the world and it tilts as she gasps, reaching and finding arms reaching back for her._

_Fingers digging into her thigh. Teeth scraping against her neck._

_Her head spins as her world spins but right now my god, she doesn’t care if he never stops._

Spinning. 

_The sun coming through the window is too bright. A familiar body lies next to hers, the sun seems to illuminate his pale chest and stomach, motes of light dancing above his skin._

_The sheets are warm as he shifts, passing a hand lazily across the freckles dotting her arm and shoulder._

A panicked face she doesn’t recognize above her, reaching, mouthing words she can’t hear.

_Pressing her face into the warm skin of his shoulder as she runs her fingers lightly across a smattering of curling blonde chest hair. A sigh rumbles under her fingers._

Another panicked face, and her view tilts, spinning, lights bounce in the darkness from far away and she feels her heavy eyelids flutter closed.

_His blonde hair mussed, falling against his face as he looks down at her. She blinks up at him, but the sun is in her eyes, too bright and she squints._

Squinting, trying to parse the flurry of activity as more strangers arrive, hoisting bright lights in her face and mouthing words she doesn’t understand.

The world is spinning violently again and hands are reaching and holding and grabbing, and she feels heavy as she tried to focus but all the faces rush together in a great swirl around her.

_A gentle hand moves through her hair, tracing nonsense shapes against her temple._

Sound begins to echo faintly, as if a wave was rushing down a distant hallway towards her and Hermione strains to hear but it goes in and out and swells.

“-- _Merlin_ , where is the bloody muggle medicine--” 

The whir of an ancient generator, a stuttering beep.

Hands move and strap instruments to her body, things she recognizes from a previous life, muggle machines of metal and wires that criss-cross and snake across the floor.

_She presses her lips against his shoulder, in less of a kiss and more in a desire to be closer, closing her eyes tightly--_

“--Losing her. Faint heartbe--”

“--no pupillary response--”

“--it’s not supposed to look like--”

“--wish we could use--”

_\--wanting to never untangle from his warmth--_

_“What the fuck is going on here?!”_

Another stuttering beep, the clamor of metal against stone.

“What happened? What _the fuck_ happened?”

“Sir, if you would--”

The whir of the generator palpably cuts through the air as boots scuffle across stone.

“ _You there_ , call Saint Mungos, tell them I’m bringing in a patient immediately. _You--_ get those archaic wires off of her--”

“--if you would just--”

“--someone get him out--”

“We’ve got it from here--”

 _“No you bloody don’t!_ Get _away_ from her with that!”

“You can’t just--”

“--put the wand down--”

“We will be forced to--”

“-- _sir!_ \--”

_It’s too bright and the warmth is leaving as the man next to her sits up, silhouetted by the sun behind him, she blinks against the light and reaches for him--_

“Draco--” Hermione slurred her speech dangerously, her hand stretched out in the air above her as she struggled to focus on her splayed fingers with blinking, swimming vision. And suddenly through the spinning chaos he was above her; his dark cloak billowing predatorily as strong, warm hands wrapped around her frail fingers.

“Granger.” He croaked, grey eyes cataloging as concern quickly replaced his instinct to fight. Hermione felt the spinning sensation recede slightly, just enough to encompass the two of them in the eye of its storm.

“I’m sorry.” It’s the first thing she could think of to say, her syllables still bumping into each other.

“I know.” Draco leaned over her, one hand wound tightly around her still-raised hand, the other flitting from her forehead, to her cheeks, to her pulse. Hermione was aware that she’d been moved from her cot to some kind of rusted gurney, and was surrounded by muggle medical devices the guards must have kept on hand for emergencies.

“I’m sorry I left so suddenly last time.” Draco said quickly, the words spilling out of him, “I was angry. I shouldn’t have left you here for that long.”

“How--?”

“Two months.” He said solemnly.

“I’m sorry.” She mumbled again, at a loss.

Draco sighed, “I know.” 

“There’s this muggle concept,” Hermione began after several long moments, still feeling a bit delirious and knowing she was babbling but unable to stop herself, “It’s got mostly religious connotations, but I think there’s something to it.”

“Go on.”

“It’s called ‘70x7’; the idea that no matter how many times somebody wrongs you, you don’t stop after forgiving them seven times, but seventy times seven.”

Draco stilled beside her, “Are you saying I haven’t . . . ?”

“No, No!” Hermione said quickly, flushing at the accusation, “No, not you. I think that through everything--I haven’t been exactly . . . kind to _myself_. I never really forgave myself.”

“For the war?” Draco asked, his voice like gravel. Hermione swallowed,

“The war, everything.”

“That’s a lot of sorries to get through.” 

“490 times . . . although the number’s not supposed to be taken literally.”

“How long?” His grip tightened around her small hand, “How long do you need?”

“As long as it takes.” Hermione replied, her vision blurring this time with tears. 

There was a silence between them as several Aurors moved around the cell, peeling pads off of Hermione’s chest and returning wires and tubes to their proper places as they wheeled the outdated medical devices from her cell. One of the guards stepped towards Draco to confer in low voices as another young guard gently lifted her from the gurney back to her cot before removing it--the last sign that anything about her stay had gone awry. After a cut nod and another billow of his cloak, Draco settled onto the edge of her bed and they were finally alone.

He passed a slow, belabored hand down his face, tugging at the edges of his jaw, “Say your sorries, do your time, but warn me when you plan on doing something like that again so I know when to drag you out of here.”

“Over my dead body.” Hermione said with all the huff she could muster.

“Careful.” Draco growled, looking down sharply at her. She glared back at him, willing herself to look intimidating and not exhausted. Finally, she sighed,

“This place is . . . really messing with my head.” Hermione swallowed heavily at the memory of her fractured consciousness.

“It does that to people.”

“It feels like . . . I’m drunk and my head is spinning, all the time.” She said slowly, holding her hand up to look at it again, marveling at how clear-headed she was now despite her exhaustion, “But without any kind of painful morning wakeup. It’s all just numbness blurring into one unending, drunken night, like the world is swirling around me in slow motion.

“Sometimes . . . I think I’m still in the war. Then I wake up and I’m back in Hogwarts. Then Azkaban. The other--” Day? Week? Episode? What was she supposed to call time she couldn’t track? “--This one time I woke up and thought we were still handcuffed together. Sometimes the worst parts of my life are played back to back on repeat. Sometimes there’s nothing. This place, it’s just . . .” She pressed her hands against her eyes, closing them in frustration.

“I know.” Draco’s voice was quiet, muffled by the stone walls instead of echoed.

“Of course.” Hermione said from behind her hands, the realization settling in the pit of her stomach, “You might be the only one who does know.” 

It was another long silence before Hermione finally dropped her hands from her eyes to find Draco looking down at her, studying her. “Why did you come back? After last time.” She asked, meeting his eyes.

“Deeply ingrained masochistic tendencies. Taking the Dark Mark from a sadistic tyrant will do that to you.” He said, with a wry look in his eye. The dryness of the remark caught her so off guard that she couldn’t stop the laugh that rang out sharply around them, throwing her into a coughing fit by the end of it. 

“No, _really,_ ” She said, clearing her throat, “You’re the only one that’s visited me.”

Draco was silent again as he slowly pulled the white Auror gloves off his hands, unclasping the buttons from the back of his wrist and tucking them away in a pocket of his robes, “Being in Azkaban makes most people physically ill.”

He reached over and Hermione felt the light touch of his cool fingers trace nonsense shapes against her temple as a wave of exhaustion hit her, “The thought of leaving you in Azkaban makes _me_ physically ill.

“Forgive yourself, Granger.” She heard the pain in his voice and felt her eyelids tug closed of their own accord, “For both our sakes.”

“I can’t save both of us. You need to forgive yourself just as much as I do, Malfoy.” She replied through her sleepy haze, hoping that her words weren’t slurring again. She relaxed against the feel of his fingers against her temple and drifted into another timeless haze before realizing it.

When she woke up later Draco was gone.

_\--the sun streams in and her bed is empty again._


	5. The Fifth Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Content Warning: inexplicit descriptions of self-harm in this chapter. To avoid descriptions of the act, skip the second paragraph from the top.*
> 
> We're starting to get to the end! Only 2 chapters left after this. See you next Friday.

####  - _The Fifth Visit -  
_ _\- Undisclosed Island in the North Sea, United Kingdom, 200X -  
  
_

Draco could remember--with startling clarity--the number of cuts it had taken to rid his arm of Voldemort’s Dark Mark. He had been secretly researching the subject of cursed marks in his father’s illicit library of Dark Arts books for months leading up to it, only half-resolved to go through with the act but knowing in his gut that he had no other choice. Everything he could find on the subject said that there was no way to remove a cursed mark with magic; it could only be destroyed through physical means and in such a way that all of the permanent marks would be broken.   
  
-

When that night finally came, Draco had become so emotionally numb that he didn’t stop or flinch during the 14 slow, deliberate knife wounds against his left forearm. He had planned exactly which lines to break and the order in which to do so, starting with a long vertical line bisecting the length of the cursed tattoo. 

-  
  


He knew he had only one chance to get the cuts right--if he messed up and Voldemort found out what he had tried to do, he’d be killed. But if he stayed, tried to be like his father, tried to carry out what Voldemort and the Death Eaters were asking of him, his soul would die bit by bit. This was his only chance to have a say in his own life.

By the end of it his arm had been a mess of 14 bloody cuts, in his bag were 2 reams of confidential Death Eater documents, and he had fled 620 kilometers throughout the night to one of the Order’s safehouses. 

Draco had spent his entire life tallying, drawing lines around himself. Obsessing over blood and lineage--who was related to who, and who had descended from muggles and thus had no lines connecting them to anyone else. Calculating his O.W.L’s and class marks, figuring out who he was smarter than and who he had to beat. Cataloguing the number of masked Death Eaters that met in secret in his living room before the war and finding the group larger each week. Counting the number of lines along his mother's face.

But through all the years Draco had never kept track of the number of times he’d walked through Azkaban’s gaping mouth of an entrance. Both as a kid and as an adult, he had tried to tell himself that he’d never return and so there was no point in tallying.

Yet he always came back.

There was something different this time, as he stood outside Hermione's small cell with both hands resting on his silver cane. There was an Auror guard on either side of the doorway and the latticed gate had been opened, the door swung outwards like a great iron claw beckoning to him. 

Inside the dimly-lit cell, he could make out Hermione’s thin frame in her cot against the back wall. She was lying on her side and waved limply at him, “I told them they could let you in.” 

He entered silently, pulling a chair up to her bedside and stretching out his bad knee as Hermione shuffled under a threadbare quilt that had been added to the cot, arranging herself so she could look up at him from her pillow.

“Well this is a change of pace.” He observed, raising an eyebrow as he peered down at the brunette.

Hermione gave a half-shrug under the blanket, “I’m having trouble moving. It’s easier this way.” But he could see through her feigned nonchalance. She looked too-thin, her once-round cheeks were sunken and even her freckles had gone grey against her pale complexion. She appeared markedly unwell, her form under the blankets too small.

He decided not to press his luck by hounding her about it and instead reached into the inner pocket of his cloak and removed a length of wood. Hermione’s eyes went wide as he held her wand out to her, handle-first.

“You--you can’t!” Hermione sputtered, glancing furtively over at the guards outside the doorway.

“Special circumstances.” It was Draco’s turn to be nonchalant as he nudged her with the wand’s handle, “Shacklebolt didn’t think it’d be an issue. Besides, the entirety of Azkaban is warded against internal wand use.”

“I don’t want it.” Hermione said resolutely, gathering the blankets tightly under her chin and shrinking back into the pillow. Her white knuckles stood out against the dark fabric. 

“Hmm, too bad.” He said obnoxiously, laying the wand on the blanket next to her as Hermione looked on in horror.

“You just--you have such an infatuation with bending the rules don’t you!? Nothing applies!” She sputtered as her large eyes darted between him and her old wand. 

“Oh, I abide by rules just fine. I don’t abide by arbitrary, irrational displays of rule of law.” Draco raised an eyebrow as she glared at him,

“Fine,” He amended loftily, “arbitrary displays of  _ heroics _ .”

“You are such a  _ child _ .” Hermione grumbled.

“The correct term is  _ emotionally stunted,  _ please get it right." He brushed a piece of imaginary dust off his sleeve.

“At least you can admit to your deep, deep faults.” She tried to scoff, but her voice dissolved into a coughing fit.

“I find it far more appealing than living under a ratty quilt of denial” Draco sniffed, biting back concern as he delicately nudged the edge of her blanket with the handle of his cane.

“Oh be nice, Mercer’s grandmother made this.” She reprimanded in a horse voice.   
  
“Ok one, who the hell is Mercer and two, the  _ nerve  _ of his gran. Neither of these floral patterns go together.” Draco’s face soured, gesturing at the patchwork shapes.

“Tomas Mercer is one of the Aurors stationed here. I was cold and he graciously lent me the quilt.” Hermione said matter-of-factly.

“Granger.” Draco leaned forward, his eyes wide as he gestured to the doorway behind him, “You’ve made friends with the guards. In Azkaban. At least  _ admit  _ that you’re not a normal inmate.”

“I broke a law.” Her voice was muffled as she petulantly pulled the blankets over her chin.

“You  _ ignored  _ a law, and then also  _ ignored  _ help from the highest lawmaker--”

“Enough! I’m sick of being lectured by you!” Hermione’s face flushed and Draco was pleased to see color across her skin for the first time in months. 

“That’s because of the--” He grabbed an edge of the quilt, intent on badgering her until either her circulation improved or they killed each other, “Ratty. Quilt. Of. Denial.”

He tugged on the quilt more sharply with each word until her arm and shoulder were uncovered. He froze, staring, while Hermione scowled, "Oh, sod off it. If I was in denial I wouldn't have spent all this time in bloody Az--"

"Granger," Draco interrupted through gritted teeth, "what  _ the fuck _ ?"

Hermione looked down and appeared just as alarmed at the pattern of bruising and criss-cross scratches that spanned the length of her upper arm and shoulder but she quickly tried to downplay it, feigning unconcern,

"P-probably scratched myself in my sleep. Used to happen all the--"

"Would you  _ listen  _ to yourself!?" Draco seethed, leaning over her in bed, stopping himself short of shaking her by the shoulders for fear of hitting one of the bruises, "This place is destroying your mind  _ and _ your body! This punishment isn't some after-class detention with Filtch or even Umbridge--"

"I  _ know _ what this is!" Hermione spat back, struggling to sit up on shaking arms and fight Draco on his level, "This isn't some school-age reprimand. This is my _ atonement--" _

_ "You're going to die here!"  _ Draco bellowed, slamming the side of his fist against the metal railing of the cot. The metal clanging reverberated loudly around them as the bed jostled violently, and Hermione stared up at him with wide-eyes, finally silenced.

Draco had barely noticed. He was staring at his fist--still balled up, still against the cot's railing--his long fingers had sloping knuckles and wisps of blonde hair. It was the same as his father's.

He had stared at that same fist, adorned with the Malfoy signet ring as it slammed against the polished wooden top of his father's desk.

"I told you I don't have  _ time _ , boy!" Lucious bellowed at a teenage Draco, who stood silently in the middle of his father's study. What once had been a tidy and pristinely erudite room had become a mess over the past year, reports and newspapers scattered about, the odd bottle of firewhiskey tucked between stacks. Next to his father's fist was spread a labeled map of the British countryside, and Draco automatically began memorizing the coded Death Eater symbols scribbled across it. The thought of defecting had been taking root in his mind for several weeks now, and he had gotten in the habit of committing useful information to memory--in case he needed a bargaining chip. 

"Mother's been asking for you." Draco replied, outwardly composed despite the hollow quality of his voice, "I think . . . I think she's really ill this time. She hasn't left her bed in days."

"Draco," his father slowly removed his glasses to stare at his son directly, "I am working on an incredibly sensitive task for our Dark Lord.  _ This--" _ he tapped the map in front of him, "--is of the utmost importance to our cause. You're an adult now Draco, a man of the Malfoy house. You take care of it."

"But...she's been asking for you." Draco repeated vacantly, even as his father turned away from him to pour over the map. He knew it was useless the moment he had caught that mad glint in his father's eyes, the same one he’d seen years ago when visiting him in Azkaban. It was a glint that said his father was seeing a very different reality than the one Draco's feet were planted in. 

His father didn't bother to respond and waved him off without looking up. As Draco wrapped a hand around the door handle to leave, he paused. Next to him on a shelf lay a letter from his aunt Bellatrix detailing, amidst other loyalist ramblings, a series of Death Eater raids to the north through Scotland. He quickly committed it to memory before slipping out of the study. 

Draco blinked rapidly against the memory. The alarm on Hermione's face was replaced with a quizzical look, her eyes darting around his face reading features faster than he could train them into an impassive mask. She waved a thin, accusatory finger vaguely in the direction of his brow, 

"What was that?" She asked lowly, "where did you just go?"

Draco bit down on the inside of his cheek, ready to wave it off when instead--"I'm turning into my father." tumbled out of his mouth.

"What do you mean?" Hermione frowned.

"I keep . . ." Draco finally unclenched his fist, holding his hand between them as he flexed his fingers in thought, "I keep mimicking his gestures now, as I get older. I'm not . . . trying to, it just keeps happening."

"Like . . . learned habits?" 

"Like he's in my blood." Draco spat with a pang of resentment, withdrawing his hand and balling it against his thigh. 

"Malfoy--" Hermione said in a soothing voice that set Draco's teeth on edge.

"Nevermind, ok? Fuck--just . . . nevermind."

"You know you're not your father." She said, slowly. 

"Granger please,  _ save it _ . I don't need some reformation speech from you, the press has done plenty of that since the war and the Marriage Law." Draco could feel his usual pale complexion tint red with frustration, wishing he had never brought up the topic in the first place.

"Malf--Draco, listen to me. Your father's dead, he can't--" Hermione tried again but Draco barreled over her sentence,

"Yes, he's dead. Killed by the genocidal Lord he devoted his life to. How's that for dramatic irony?" He felt a bitter laugh bubble up, "I couldn't stop him from dying. I couldn't stop Dumbledore from dying. Couldn't stop Pansy or Blaise or Snape or my mother. I am who I am because of my father. He raised a kid obsessed with birthright and blood. And now I’m a man obsessed with his bloody birthright--”

Draco cut himself off, leaning back in his chair as he bit the inside of his cheek, willing himself to  _ shut up _ . Next to him, Hermione had managed to prop herself up in bed, leaning heavily on her arm for support. She let him sit in silence for a few moments before softly speaking,

“I know you, Malfoy. I spent every waking moment around you for what, five years? Six? Would your father have defected? Would he have risked his life to save someone-- _ anyone _ \--other than Voldemort? Or lobbied the Ministry on behalf of young Death Eaters who didn’t know what they were signing up for? Would your father have visited someone in Azkaban month after month?”

“My father would have done anything for my mother.” He said harshly, meeting her gaze before part of his features crumbled, “Except leave Voldemort’s side to visit her on her deathbed.”

“And what did you do?” She probed gently.

“She died, and I left.” The words felt empty.

“And if it were me,” Hermione said carefully, reaching over to put a hand on his clenched fist, “What would you do?”

“Don’t joke.” He said sharply, feeling opposition kick in his gut but not moving his hand.

“I'm not.” 

He tilted his head toward her, could see the naked honesty on her face and met it with a truth of his own, “I would rip this bloody building apart brick by brick if I knew you weren’t stubborn enough to refuse to leave the rubble.”

“Your father may have had you for the first seventeen years of your life. We’ve had you for the past seven. That counts for something.” Hermione said solemnly, her voice almost a whisper. She held his gaze for a moment before wincing and lowering herself back down to the blankets.

“Just a second.” She half-smiled apologetically and blinked hard, trying to fight off a wave of exhaustion. Draco studied her face as her eyes fluttered closed under her furrowed brow, and he leaned forward to rest a hand against her head before he even processed the action, his thumb lightly brushing the skin of her temple. It was the only soothing reaction he knew--his mother used to trace constellations against his forehead when he was a kid trying to fall asleep at night and now years later, he traced the Draco constellation against Hermione’s skin.

She shifted again, blinking up at him. “You’re getting weaker.” He said gruffly, not removing his hand.

“I know. At least I’m not loopy anymore.” 

“Or at least, not yet.” He huffed, sounding like her and trying to ignore that fact.

“Really, I’ve only been tired lately, not completely-out-of-my-skull mental like before.”

“Isn’t that your normal state?”

“Hardy-har.” 

“Come home with me.” His words slipped out carelessly and he willed himself not to flinch.

“Not yet, I still need to . . . sort some things out.” She winced, short of breath as he withdrew his hand back to his lap, “I’m sorry Draco. It’s not . . . it’s not you--”

“Save me the breakup speech, Granger.” He said, trying and failing once again not to let the rejection sting.

“That’s not what I’m saying and you know it. I’m here because of me, and my decisions.” Hermione said, her voice sounding strained and horse, “Not because of you. I know what coming to Azkaban means for you. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing to me.” He said gruffly again, clearing his throat.

“I’m sorry. I won’t.”

They sat in silence for a while and Draco thought Hermione had fallen asleep again until she stirred, her lashes fluttering and eyes rolling before resting on him in a deeply unsettling way that reminded Draco of his mother, sick and alone in her luxurious manor bed.

“You should go.” Hermione whispered, her voice thick with sleep. When he didn’t respond she continued, “You don’t belong here, Draco, you’re not your father. You survived. You’re a hero.”

_ “You don’t belong here, Draco.”  _ His mother had said dreamily, tracing the dark mark on her only son’s forearm as he sat by the edge of her bed while she struggled to breathe.

“If I’m not my father,” Draco began, speaking to both women and no one at all, “I don’t know what kind of man I’m supposed to be.”

Hermione smiled at him, even as she breathed heavily, “That’s part of it. You get to choose.”

“How do I know I’m even making the right choices?” He asked, desperately raking both hands through his hair.

“You chose to defect. You know what’s right.” She said simply.

“I'm not going to stop asking you to come home, you know.” He said, looking up at her through his disheveled hair.

“Good.” Hermione smiled at him again before wincing, her eyes fluttering shut again, “See you . . . next time, then.”

Draco sat in silence as he watched her finally drift off. It wasn’t a restful sleep and he observed discomfort wrinkle and smooth her face repeatedly as he battled with his own thoughts. He walked around like he felt his father's presence behind him constantly, but was he the one conjuring that presence? He thought the only life he had known was shaped by his father, and that had been true to an extent. But he had spent the last seven years around other wizards; Lupin and McGonagall, Snape, Moody, and . . . Hermione. Was he just completely disregarding the last several years of his life? Or was he unable to see past his father’s imposing silhouette looming from his childhood?

He was only twenty-four. As Draco aged, the chunk of his life that he had spent by his father’s side would shrink more and more and his life as an Auror, a war hero, a man, would grow larger. He would just wait it out. 

But could he?

Draco looked down at Hermione, her brow had finally smoothed into a peaceful state and her breathing had evened out. He stood up and resolutely pulled his white Auror gloves back on before turning towards the cell door, his long shadow stretching out into the hall before him.

He would have to.

Seven years. Fourteen cuts. In all of Draco's tallying, he had never once forgiven himself.


	6. The Sixth Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the post delay, please enjoy a double update this week--the final (7th) chapter will be posted on Friday.  
> Thanks to everyone who's been reading along!

#### - _The Sixth Visit -  
_ _\- Undisclosed Island in the North Sea, United Kingdom, 200X -_

Hermione remembered the exact moment she had seen the floating green 98% of the matchmaking spell pop up above the tip of her wand. 

She had been in the Ministry when the news first broke, her plans to bring Harry his forgotten lunch utterly derailed as she gaped at a kiosk stacked with _Daily Prophet’s_ bearing the bold headline ‘ _Ministry Matchmaking; Find_ **_the One_ ** _with Just One Spell’,_ indignation boiling in her gut. Discussions about an impending Marriage Law had hit a crescendo across the Ministry in the last several weeks, and it was due to be signed into law by Minister Shacklebolt any day now. Hermione had even been invited to several hearings about the new law, her activist leanings and prominent status during the war making her an ideal advisor. But she hadn’t even heard a whisper about the creation of a matchmaking spell until news of it was plastered across every newspaper, billboard, and charmed split-flap display in the building. 

By the time she had stomped her way to the Auror offices and found Harry’s desk at the edge of the bullpen she was fuming, one hand crumpling a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ , her other hand crumpling Harry’s brown paper bag lunch.

“Whose teenage love-sick idea was this _Diligo Deprendo_ spell? There’s a good reason love potions are banned at Hogwarts.” Hermione growled, smacking Harry’s lunch a bit too hard on his desk as he winced, “You forgot lunch, by the way.”

“Thanks, ‘Mione.” He mumbled, pushing up his glasses to rub a hand across his face. As usual, Harry looked like he was running on negative hours of sleep and Hermione fought the urge to smooth down several unruly curls. After the war ended, Harry had offered her one of the bedrooms at Grimmauld Place and they had gotten along unsurprisingly well as roommates. Hermione made sure Harry didn’t skip meals and Harry made sure not a single cursed and/or sentient object in the house said anything bad about her parentage. Kreatcher had taken a bit more work, but was finally referring to Hermione as “Miss” instead of “It”. 

“Honestly, who would even _trust_ a matchmaking spell? Amortentia only produces _feelings_ of infatuation and obsession that wear off after a while.” Hermione continued, crossing her arms as she leaned a hip against Harry’s desk, taking a swig of his coffee before gesturing wildly with it, “Have we forgotten that Voldemort was _born_ from a union predicated on a love potion? What’s this spell supposed to do--daze half the wizarding world into kissing whoever’s nearby?”

“Hermione--” Harry deftly tracked her hand and snatched back his coffee mug, taking a needed drink before Hermione stole it back, “The spell is far more sophisticated than that--”  
  
“You _knew_ about this?” Hermione’s voice had hit that octave she knew made Harry and Ron wince, but this time was glad to see its effect hit home, “Harry James--”

“ _Hermione Jean Granger_.” Harry parroted back, scowling, “Why do you think the Spell Regulation Office asked you to come in today for an advisor meeting?”

“What?” Hermione’s momentary pause was ideal for Harry to reclaim his coffee, “I’m supposed to be meeting with the Improper use of Magic Office.”

Harry shook his head and took a sip, “It’s a sub-department.”

“ _Bureaucracy!”_ Hermione rolled her eyes dramatically, “I’ll consult, but I’m not going to do the stupid spell. I don’t believe in just pairing people up based on--what--looks? Magical skill? Blood status? Isn’t that the reason we fought the bloody war in the first place?” She fumed, angrily flipping through the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ but finding no answers.

“I’ve seen the spell, ‘Mione. The math is solid. It’s got nothing to do with blood status.” Harry downed his coffee, leaning back in his chair.

“Sure, it’s just been developed at an _awfully convenient_ time.” Hermione huffed, “Right on the precipice of passing an _awfully_ _controversial_ law--which I’ve told the Wizengamot I _don’t--”  
  
_ “Speaking of time--you’re late.” Harry gestured to one of the many-sized clocks along the far wall depicting various time zones, time of days, and Auror time tables. Hermione jumped up from Harry’s desk, smacking the creased newspaper down in her place.

“Don’t forget lunch!” Harry called after Hermione’s quickly retreating form.

“I had some coffee!” She waved vaguely over her shoulder before disappearing around a corner. Harry looked down into his empty mug and sighed. 

Several hours later, Hermione had also seen the math. She had sat through several presentations and practical demonstrations put on by the Spell Regulation Offices, but it was a walkthrough by the spell’s lead developer--none other than Padma Patil--that had begrudgingly convinced Hermione. 

_Diligo Deprendo_ itself was ingenious. Part tracking spell, part inspection spell, it predominantly analyzed the user by piggybacking off the same magic that wands use to pick their owners, and combined those findings with some basic medical and personality information. This data was then “submitted to a proprietary Ministry algorithm” that seemed to again rely predominantly on amplified wand-magic to find the user their match and spit out a percentage number that was immediately relayed to their wand. As long as users were of age and had been picked by a wand, their information was logged in the Ministry’s system, regardless if they had performed the spell or not. This information tracked by a special branch of the Ministry--a sub-sub-department of the Spell Regulation Offices--that would monitor and catalogue those who performed the spell. Any two witches or wizards that scored above a 75% compatibility would be immediately assigned to wed, in accordance with the impending Marriage Law. 

Wandlore had always been a mysterious, complicated subject. Experts such as wandmakers had dedicated their lives to understanding the quasi-sentient instruments, and it appeared that the _Diligo Deprendo_ spell was a huge advancement in the field. Despite Hermione’s earlier reservations, she found herself intrigued. Since no two wands were alike and wands were capable of having affinities for certain wizards that grew over time, it seemed as if wand-magic was perfect for the development of the first actual matchmaking spell.

“A wand chooses its owner. Why can’t they also choose their owner’s partner? We don’t take into consideration race, blood status, or gender. If you matched, you matched. Although a user may have multiple matches, there’s only one top-scoring percentage.” Padma adjusted her glasses as she addressed Hermione and the other assembled Ministry advisors. Her long dark hair was done up in a sleek pleat that cascaded over her shoulder and she looked professional in a conservative slate grey dress and robes, “Most highly compatible couples we’ve tested score in the mid-to-high-80’s. We’ve found that the compatibility range for a ‘successful’ relationship begins around the low 70’s, and didn’t want couples who score below that 75-and-up range to feel as though the Ministry was forcing them into an unhappy situation.”

“Even though they’re being forced to marry _someone_ , regardless.” Hermione grumbled from her seat, arms crossed. She may have been convinced of the spell’s efficacy, but remained unconvinced of its political value.

“Like I said,” Padma ran a hand down her pleat, smoothing down barely-stray hairs as she spoke over Hermione, “Our internal testing has found scarce few couples to fall below our 75% mark. They are outliers, as most fall between--”

“What about soulmates?” Hermione was surprised to find that it was Luna who had spoken up in a dreamy voice from the back of the room. In her tardiness, Hermione had failed to notice her friend also in attendance as one of the spell advisors. Padma removed her glasses to clean them on the hem of her robe’s sleeve as several of her colleges chuckled to themselves behind her.

“For the purposes of our testing, we defined soulmates as inhabiting the 96 to 100 percentage range.” Padma put her glasses back on and smiled patronizingly at Luna, “We found them to be statistically impossible.”

“Hmm,” Luna hummed thoughtfully, “that doesn’t sound very romantic.”

When Hermione left the meeting, she couldn’t help but immediately lock herself in the far stall of the women’s second floor bathrooms. She held her wand out in front of her, debating. It struck her that perhaps it wasn’t ideal to be sitting on a toilet while performing the spell that may or may not tell her who her soulmate was, but patience was not one of Hermione Granger’s virtues.

Yet, statistically, there were no soulmates she corrected herself, her face souring as she remembered what Padma had said. Did she really want a spell to tell her who she was romantically suited for? She and Ron had never quite worked out past their awkward pre-teen years, once the war had gotten underway they had drifted further and further apart and been assigned to different roles within the Order while Harry was off Horcrux hunting. By the time the dust had settled, she and Ron were two very different people than they were in school. Their break had been amicable, their previous relationship more of an infatuation than a love in hindsight. 

Hermione hesitated. What if the spell matched her with Ron after all? Or worse--Harry, who was more of a brother than any blood relative she’d ever had. Did she really trust her wand to play matchmaker? She stared down at it’s knotted wood, the soft handhold her touch had carved into it over time. Her wand seemed to hum softly in her hands. Padma’s smug face bubbled to the surface of her mind.

Fuck it.

_“Diligo Deprendo.”_ Hermione said aloud, reproducing the loose-griped swirl and stab that she had watched the Ministry presenter do.

The first thing she noticed was the glowing green _98%_ hovering above the tip of her wand. She snorted, imagining what the look on Padma’s face would be, before choking when she saw the portrait floating above the numbers. An affronted, green-tinted bust of Draco Malfoy looked down at the 98%, looked up at her, and scowled before repeating the loop over and over again. Hermione stared at the image, slack-jawed. 

She had marched from the women’s second floor bathrooms straight to the Minister’s office.

—

Hermione blearily stared up at the stone ceiling of her cell in Azkaban, blinking to clear her vision.

Unsure of how much time had passed, she fought to retain consciousness. She didn’t want to slip into the past again, nor the dreamy mists inside her head. She needed to think. She needed to be conscious to think. She fished a hand out from under her blankets to rub the sleep from her eyes when a length of cool wood rolled against her leg and she peered down at the sudden sensation.

Her wand.

The last time she had seen it, it was passing from her hand to the Minister’s, her chest constricted tight in statue-like resolve to never use magic again. Seeing the object she had once thought of as her lifeline leaving her hold forever had been a sobering experience, but Hermione was nothing if not principled and standing by her decision had meant being prepared to never wield a wand again.

She stared at her wand. 

Hermione knew how Azkeban worked. It had been warded against magic for centuries, and had housed some of the wizarding world's most powerful criminals. Even the guards didn’t have access to their wands inside, forcing prisoners who wanted to escape to do so without the help of magic. Her wand would be rendered completely useless. 

Then why could she not touch her wand?

Hermione forced herself to reach down, concentrating in the mechanical motion of opening her hand and spreading her fingers before grabbing hold of cool, thinly laminated wood, feeling the natural knots and bumps as it slid once again into her worn, familiar grip.

She slowly, almost reverently, pulled the wand out from under the blankets and held it above her as she lay in bed. It fit so well in her hand that an unconscious thrill went up her spine, just as it had years ago when she had given it a wave in the middle of Olivander’s shop as a little girl. She had been protective of her wand, her connection to the wizarding world, ever since then. During the war it had been confiscated once by a group of Death Eaters when her raiding party had been captured trying to evacuate muggle families from the Isle of Man. The powerlessness that had coursed through her veins while being held prisoner had been akin to cutting off a limb.

Thoughts of the war quickly soured her mood and her hand dropped to her chest, her wand rolling loosely between her fingers. Could she ever really atone for the spells she used on the battlefield? The wounding hexes, the killing curses she had slung had all cost small pieces of herself, chipping away spell by spell at her sanity.

Was this her atonement, then? It had been months since she used magic, and without that lifeline she had been adrift in the foggy ruination of Azkeban’s making. 

_You're going to die here._

Draco’s words bubbled to the forefront of her mind, buoyed by the memory of his anguished features. Was dying enough to make up for the lives that she had taken, the people she had destroyed? Was it enough to let Azkaban slowly dismantle her being until all she remembered was slivers of feeling and the grip of her wand?

Another image boiled in her mind; Draco’s back against the bars of her cell, hunched shoulders illuminated by dim yellow lighting casting striped shadows across the stone. He had raked his hands through his hair, recounting to her how he had performed the _Diligo Deprendo_ spell on his own that night he discovered their compatibility. They had been sitting back to back and she had turned around to interrupt him, but froze at the sight of his shaking hands, his obvious distress. 

If she let Azkaban slowly destroy herself, she would also be letting it destroy a part of Draco. 

Was this atonement?

For the first time since her voluntary incarceration, Hermione felt a wave of opposition, remembering how Draco’s shaking hands had anxiously clutched at his hair. She had expected some level of resistance from Draco at her incarceration, but not to this extreme; monthly visits, refusing to let Azkaban dismantle her mind, torturing himself with memories of his family. He was unraveling himself while desperately trying to keep her together.

They had been close during the war, perhaps closer than Hermione was willing to give them credit for. At some point between being handcuffed together and separated by cell bars he had ceased being Malfoy, heir to his pureblood lineage and Slytherin golden boy and had become Draco, war hero of the Order, spilling his blood again and again to bring them valuable intel.

_There had also been that night, with the sunshine that spilled through the windows in the morning, too bright for Hermione’s eyes--_

No. She swallowed heavily, stomping down the thought. Destroying Draco wasn’t an option.

What did that leave her with? There was no “fixing” the lives she’d taken, what she’d done using her magic, but there must be some way to build up, to give back, to perpetuate the good that the war had tried to strip from them all when they were children.

And now there was an entirely new generation growing up in the wake of the Second Wizarding War, under the guidance of a shaky government attempting to reign in the authoritarian power of the previous deadly regime, passing dubious marriage laws in an attempt to unify their splintered population. Young students who would be attending a Hogwarts half in rubble, still under repairs, who’s great Headmaster would never walk its halls again. Children who were either orphaned or growing up in single-parent homes, the prolonged war claiming the lives of parents who will never know which houses their children were sorted into. 

Hermione felt a sudden ache in her chest, remembering the holidays during her fifth year when she, Ron, and Ginny had discovered the fate of Neville’s parents. They were victims of the First Wizarding War, the consequences of which had impacted Neville’s entire family.

There were hundreds more Neville’s in the wake of the Second War, all desperate to find refuge, hope, and magic in a battle-scarred Hogwarts--whose very stone served as a constant reminder of what they had sacrificed.

All as Hermione let herself rot in Azkaban.

If she couldn’t fix the law, she could at least make things better for the students of Hogwarts; the half-blood and pureblood students who needed refuge and escape from what the war had wrought on their families, and the new muggle-born students who were as desperate as she was to discover magic in their world. 

Her wand hummed comfortably in her hand. 

Hogwarts needed her.

Hermione needed to teach. 

If she had to wield a wand again to do that, so be it. Her magic would be in the service of others, not for herself nor for the sake of any faction she supported. 

Hermione felt her mind beginning to drift off again, into the sucking void of Azkaban and steeled herself against it, wrapping both hands tightly around her wand.

“I’m sorry.” she whispered softly to it, finding comfort in it’s rigidity once more as she slipped into unconsciousness.

—

When Hermione awoke, she found a clarity of mind that she hadn’t felt in a long time. Her wand remained tightly in her grip and she regarded it now as she thought quickly, fighting against the ebb and tide of Azkaban’s pull. 

She was barely fit to sit up in bed, which was far from being fit enough to teach the students at Hogwarts. She needed to regain some of her faculties, some of her strength before she was sure that she could shake the hold that Azkeban had on her. If her body was going to leave Azkeban, she needed to bring her mind with her as well.

To fight the overwhelming pull of unconsciousness, Hermione needed to keep her mind in focus and anchored in reality. Casting about internally, she found herself reaching for familiar topics; history, facts, research. Magic.

_The first Minister for Magic was Minister Ulick Gamp (office held 1707-1718) who’s work as head of the Wizengamot predated his tenure as Minister. Not only did he shepherd the wizarding community through the early years of the International Statute of Secrecy, he also founded the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and outlawed the Unforgivable Curses._ She had the passage from _A History of Magic_ memorized in the fifth year to help her with O.W.L.’s 

The fog receded and Hermione forced herself to sit up. Head and vision spinning, she again forced herself to concentrate on her wand until she stopped seeing double.

_The depths of magic that wands possess are still largely unknown by scholars, yet their power is governed by four fundamental subtle laws. The first is that wands appear to be drawn to and develop a familiarity with humans who possess magic. The second, that this mysterious connection between person and wand is complex and will grow over time with mutual understanding. The third, that any magic-possessing human may channel their energy into any wand--but best results emerge when there is a strong connection between person and wand. Fourth, and lastly, a wand way be won from its master._

Better. She lamented having no concept of time, wincing as she remembered angrily smashing the small clock the guards had left her. That was back when she had wanted to be swallowed up by Azkeban, when she was ready to let it strip her.

Not anymore. Carefully, using her hand fisted around her wand, she pushed herself up out of bed. She slowly shuffled her way over to the sink as her knees popped in protest, pain from disuse shooting up her lower back and cramping at her calves. Biting her lip against a sudden muscle spasm, she closed her eyes briefly, desperate for a distraction. The fog of Azkaban tugged at her mind again; how hard it was to fight gravity, how she could just sit back down--

_The Thestral are a classification XXXX magical creature and are regarded as omens of misfortune by many in the wizarding community. They can only be seen by those who have witnessed death. The XXXX classification has been given by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures’ Beast Division and designates a creature that is dangerous and/or requires specialist knowledge._

Hermione regurgitated the information in her mind until she stood in front of her goal, the sink. She leaned heavily against it, using the ceramic support to stretch out her atrophied muscles, stomping her heel against the ground to force her locked-up Achilles tendon to release. She glanced at herself in the mirror with vague recognition before dropping her eyes down to the basin; her true goal.

With some difficulty due to diminished dexterity, she placed the cup by the edge of her sink into the basin upside down, twisting the sink’s handle until water just barely dripped out of the faucet. The drops methodically fell onto the bottom of the cup, making an audible _plink!_ with each landing. Hermione turned the handle until the drops fell about once every three seconds, a wet metronome that echoed through her cell.

She turned away from the barely recognizable woman in the mirror to lean against the sink, her eyes searching around the room for something she could use as a weight, something she could use to build up her neglected muscles--

She again felt the tug of Azkaban, how uncomfortable and tired she was, how easy it would be just to lay down again. She concentrated on how annoying the dripping water sounded.

_The bulk of Hogwarts’ plumbing system was built into the castle in the 1700s. This construction threatened to reveal the location of The Chamber of Secrets, which at the time was only hidden by a magical trapdoor in the depths of the castle’s dungeons. Corvinus Gaunt, a Slytherin student, conspired to have the entrance concealed by a sink in the second floor girls’ bathroom rather than risk the Chamber be sealed up._

Better. Now, perhaps she could use a stack of books as a weight, for her arms at least.

It was a start.   
  
—

_The spell_ Arresto Momentum _was first invented by Daisy Pennifold in 1711 for use on Quaffles during games of Quidditch, which allowed them to better retain their buoyancy in the air. These Quaffles were known as Pennifold Quaffles and the enchantment is still in use today._

Hermione was walking the length of her cell in less of a pace and more of a lap. She had gotten up to 30 laps in her regular routine, and her muscles no longer cramped and shook violently when she tried to stand.

Reaching the final turn around her rickety table, Hermione returned to sit on the edge of her cot, removing her wand from her waistband. She was never far from it now, and despite its inert nature her wand was the best form of companionship she had within these prison walls. She looked down at it’s light wood, rolling the length of it between her fingers. Now that she wasn’t moving, she could feel that cold pull of Azkaban at the edges of her consciousness and her mind automatically recalled information to combat its effects.

_The only known prisoner to have escaped Azkaban unassisted is Sirius Black, in 1993. He did so through the use of his unregistered, previously unknown animagus form._

Hermione paused, breaking her own concentration--did Sirius use magic in Azkaban? An animagus form is a learned ability, sure, but it’s acquired partly through the use of a potion and takes magic to perform. Sirius had once told Harry, Ron, and herself that he had stayed sane in Azkaban by focusing on his innocence. He would repeatedly change into his dog form to avoid the worst of the Dementor’s abuse, and focusing on tracking down Peter Pettigrew gave him the strength he needed to fight the effects of Azkaban.

Through a combination of magic and sheer will power, he had found a way around Azkaban’s wards. Back then Sirius had to contend with Dementors, but now that their reign was over . . . 

Hermione’s entire life had been steeped in magic, ever since her Hogwarts acceptance letter. She had obsessed over it; as an underage student during the summer months she had insisted on sleeping with her wand on her bedside table despite the fact she wasn't allowed to use it. During the school year she spent every free moment of time she had in the library, greedily absorbing every ounce of information she could learn about the magical world. During the war, she had become carefully attuned to the Dark Arts as a means of survival. She leaned on that skill now, closing her eyes.

If she concentrated hard enough, she could feel the Dark Arts magic of Azkaban swirl around her, the imprints left by decades of Dementors. There was a deep sorrow to the building, a curse cut into the very ground it was built on, some ancient magics that had existed long before a magician had even thought to construct a fortress here. The curse reached up from the dirt and into Azkaban’s stones, worming its way through the cracks and the crumbling grout like roots in reverse. 

Being conscious of the Dark Arts around her made her stomach flip in a sickening way. It was one thing to be numb to it, another to be aware of the tendrils of a centuries old curse--perhaps even as old as the first man--trying to wind its way up her body, towards her soul. She shuddered, clutching at her wand with both hands.

She was so tired, it was hard to focus on one thing for long. It’d be so easy to lay down--

No, it would be easier to just leave Azkaban. 

She bit back against the fog of Azkaban again, realizing how true that statement was. It’d be easier for her to just leave than it would be to give in and sink back into the dreamlike fog. She had been preparing; her physical strength had improved in the last few weeks, and she had learned to train her mind how to recognize when the threatening haze of Azkaban tried to creep its way in. She was now able to automatically refocus her thoughts, grasping onto the concrete, concentrating on her own innocence. 

But a life outside of Azkaban . . . Draco’s face swam in her mind. Draco’s bust sneering as if he were insulted, looking between the glowing 98% of their compatibility and back up at her. Draco, pale and thin, leaning against the doorframe for support as his convulsing left arm drips dark red blood across the sill. Draco’s hunched form against the cell bars, shaking as he runs anguished hands through his hair. Draco’s blonde hair mussed, falling against his face as he looks down at her, silhouetted by the bright sun peeking through the window over his bare shoulder.

The one memory she had been avoiding.

He hadn’t let her ignore it, had weaponized it, tried to pry her out of her stubbornness even while it broke him apart. He had shoved it in her face every time he visited, knowing that every rejection of hers would hurt him just a little more, more, more. He had let himself bleed his once-valuable pureblood, let her wound his precious pride, all to save her muggleborn life.

Hermione was principled enough not to let romance get in the way of her morals but . . . would a life together with Draco Malfoy really be so bad? 

Hermione hadn’t even realized her eyes were still closed until she saw flashes of light through her lids. She opened them, confused for only a moment before realizing that the brilliant gold and silver sparks were emitting from her wand. She loosened her clenched hands as the sparks turned to red and then green, showering the cell in colored lights that seemed to transform the very shape of the hewn stones, pushing back the oppressive shadows.

“ _Lumos._ ” She said, as the firework-like colors cooled to a comforting golden glow. 

Giddy, she stood and adjusted her grip, conjuring a happy memory in her mind. Blonde hair and bright sunshine. 

“ _Expecto Patronum!”_ An iridescent ribbon shot out of the end of her wand, Hermione’s eyes went wide before filling with tears and she doubled over, her laughter echoing through the stone halls.

—

Hermione was standing in the middle of her cell, the illumination of her _Lumos_ spilling out across the walls and through the cell bars in golden strips of light when the guards arrived. At the front of the group was Draco, his cloak buttoned crooked and his hair a mess, disbelief blanketing everyone’s features but hers.

Hermione smiled softly, raising her wand to point at the cell door, “ _Alohamora_.” It swung open soundlessly in front of the gathered group. None of the guardsmen moved to apprehend her or secure the door, one of them raised a shaking hand and removed his hat in reverence.

Draco took an unsteady step forward. Another. His eyes were wide, trained on hers. She felt a thrill go up her spine.

“ _Expecto Patronum_.” The soft moonlight of the spell erupted from her wand and cast the two of them in an ethereal silver light. 

“How--you--” Draco stuttered, at a very un-Draco-like loss for words. Hermione almost laughed at the awestruck look on his face.

“I still . . . don’t agree with a totalitarian Marriage Law, but . . .” She said gently, holding out her hand as Draco stepped from the doorway into her cell, “I think I’d like to go home now, Draco.” Draco’s eyes searched her face as he carefully took hold of her outstretched hand. Even through the gloves his hands were warm. 

“Look.” She murmured, nodding with her head to gesture at her Patronus which was playfully rolling and swimming in the air around them. He glanced over hesitantly, as if afraid to take his eyes off her, but comprehension slowly dawned on his face as he watched. 

“Is that a--” Hesitant eyes searched her face as he looked back at her.

“Ferret, yes.” She confirmed as the silvery creature flipped between them, “It used to be an--”

“Otter.” Draco finished, “I remember. It only changes when--”

“I like this one more.” She said as if throwing a challenge, finding her voice shaking slightly as they locked eyes.

“Hermione--” Draco reached forward, pulling her forehead against his. They stood for a moment, both unable to say anything before Draco broke out in a smile, a laugh bubbling up within him. Hermione began to giggle and soon they were laughing together, Draco’s hands on the back of her neck and Hermione reaching up across his back.

They held each other in the pale silver light of Hermione’s new Patronus and it was as if Azkaban’s walls fell away around them.


	7. The Seventh Visit

#### - _The Seventh Visit -  
_ _\- Undisclosed Island in the North Sea, United Kingdom, 200X -_

Draco moved so quickly that his cane was barely touching the ground as he crossed the blackened stones of Azkaban for the second time that morning. Hours ago, he had been awoken in the dead of night by an Azkaban guard at his floo urging Draco to come quickly. Fearing the worst, he had endured a tortuous journey out to the prison island and through the depths of the growling fortress only to find--

A miracle. Hermione, performing magic. She had found a way through the wards.

Draco was awestruck. 

He hadn’t wanted to let go of her, had wanted to take her from Azkaban right there and then, but knew he had to follow Ministry procedure--which is why he’d woken Minister Shacklebolt up at 3 am to approve Hermione’s release. It was the only thing that could have torn him from her side and his skin crawled at the thought of leaving Hermione in Azkaban any longer than she needed to be. 

The chill across his skin quickened his step until he and the navigating Auror rounded the final corner to see a golden glow emitting from down the hall. The waiting guards parted for Draco--a much larger crowd of Aurors were gathered now, no doubt all wanting to see Hermione Granger; war hero, enemy of the state, and Brightest Witch of Her Age bypass their wards like they were cobwebs. Their handheld lanterns were washed out by her bright _Lumos Maxima_ as several of them helped her into an old wheelchair, tucking a quilt around her legs. Draco kept an eye on her as he approached the bearded Auror from his first visit, handing the man a rolled parchment affixed with a wax seal of the Ministry’s emblem, 

“From the Minister. Effective immediately, the prisoner Hermione Granger is to be released into the care of Draco Malfoy, etcetera, etcetera.” He waved his hand vaguely, barely paying attention as he tracked Hermione's movements like a hawk, "All charges against her will be dropped in accordance with Addendum 88b in Section 14 of the Ministry’s Marriage Law. Please direct further questions away from me.” The Auror accepted the paperwork wearily, but didn’t bother to inspect it before tucking it away in his cloak.

Draco finally slipped into the familiar place by Hermione’s side, waiting until the guards reverently stepped away from her chair. She seemed relaxed, but Draco could read the strain around her eyes. Still, she held the lit wand aloft as she looked up at him,

“Ready?”

He wheeled her through the dark passages, leaning heavily on the handles as she lit the way for the bearded Auror to navigate back to the entrance. Behind them trailed the mass of guards and Aurors that had gathered at her cell. With the bright glow of Hermione’s wand, it was like seeing the prison for the first time--it looked more like a building and less like a beast when he could see dusty stones for what they were. But as the shadows moved in his peripherals, he had a sudden gut wrenching feeling that he was walking across the same patch of dirt floor he had crossed years ago, huddled against his mother on the way to visit his father.

He shook his head sharply to clear it, looking down at Hermione again. Her free hand was resting delicately against his cane that lay across her lap, and she held her wand unwaveringly high. He concentrated on the tip of her wand until he was sure that the space his memory occupied was far behind them.

They traveled through the shifting hallways in silence and when the first gloomy rays of overcast light trickling in from outside mingled with Hermione’s _Lumos_ he heard her let out a great breath, as if she had been holding it in the entire time they traversed the labyrinth below. The group of Aurors around them dispersed to help raise the iron gates leading out of Azkaban and Draco dropped a hand to Hermione’s shoulder as she extinguished her wand with a soft _Nox_. 

She raised her hand to rest on Draco’s as they watched the first of the heavy gates rise, “I think I’d like to talk to McGonagall when we get back.”

“We’ll owl her when you’re feeling better.” Draco said dismissively, nodding sternly to a passing guard.

“I feel fine. My wits are about me,” She gestured to the general vicinity of her head, “I want to speak with her before the school year begins.”

“There’s plenty of time--” Draco began but Hermione cut him off,

“I want--I want to teach.” Her voice quivered slightly, “I need to be back at Hogwarts.”

“Granger,” Draco sighed heavily, “The first thing you can think to do after being released from Azkaban is to visit the library? Honestly if you’re that desperate, I can just build you one--”  
  
“That is _not_ why I want to teach and you know it.” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

“Ah, but it _is_ a perk.” 

They sat in silence for a moment, watching another latticed gate raise before Hermione blurted out, “Ok, but if I become a professor--do you know they have unrestricted access to the restricted section--”

“ _Merlin’s_ _tits,_ Granger!” Draco exclaimed loudly in the claustrophobic antechamber, causing several guards to glance over at him in alarm, “I was joking before, but obviously Azkaban had truly addled your brain beyond repair.”

Hermione had no response but to laugh, and Draco was amazed to hear the sound fill Azkaban’s foreboding walls, combatting the sense of dread that had settled in the pit of his stomach upon entering the prison.

“The first thing I’m going to do though, is march straight into Shacklebolt’s office--” Hermione started, her voice suddenly turning dark.  
  
“One coup at a time, please.” Draco sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.  
  
“Draco, I’m serious. You and I--well, it’s different, but a _mandatory Marriage Law_ is still wrong--the Ministry should do something--”

“I know.” He said grimly, “I can call a Wizengamot meeting next week.”  
  
His words had caught Hermione off guard and she tilted her head to look up at him with a frown, perplexed, “You can--You can do that?”

“Of course I can.” Draco said dangerously, with a slow smile that showed all of his teeth, “I was a General, after all.” A smile twitched at her own lips.

With a resounding _clang!_ the last of the iron and reinforced wooden gates of Azkaban rose and Draco pushed Hermione out into the ever-present drizzle of rain that hung over the island. It was truly dismal weather, but to the two of them it might as well have been bright sunlight. Hermione tilted her head up towards the rain, letting the drops run across her skin for the first time in months. Draco studied her face as she closed her eyes.

Her cheeks were gaunt and her complexion more pallid than he remembered, but she was alive. Thank Merlin, she was alive and Draco was taking them far away from Azkaban. He felt as if the past 7 months had aged the both of them exponentially--it felt like it’d been 70 years since he first visited Hermione, tormented by the memory of his father. As if it had happened to a different person.

And in a way, it had. Both he and Hermione had left a piece of themselves in Azkaban. Part of them had died within those walls. They hadn’t done it to each other though, their changes had been personal, deeply internal. He suspected he wasn’t done yet either, that the internal shifts he was feeling would still take a long time to resolve, like tectonic plates trying to settle or like tracing the path of a maze to it's end. Draco glanced over his shoulder at the impossibly tall silhouette of the prison as he pushed Hermione farther out through the weedy grasses that dotted the terrain. A group of guards had silently gathered outside the gates to see them off.

_The Malfoy name stands for loyalty_.

He looked back down at Hermione’s serene face. He knew where his loyalty lay. He defined the Malfoy name now.

Hermione opened her eyes to catch him looking at her, “What?”

“Just reminiscing.” 

Draco pushed Hermione past the wards of the prison and then some, finally bringing the wheelchair to a stop on a dreary strip of grey beach sand at the edge of the island--the furthest he could get them from the prison. He carefully pulled a wrapped portkey from the inside of his cloak as the wind caused it to billow dramatically, the drab clouds above mixing with the colorless ocean to create a bleak painting around them. Draco hardly noticed as he began to unwrap the handkerchief from the bewitched mug, but Hermione’s hand darted out, grabbing him by the wrist.

“Where, ah--” She began quickly, cutting herself off as a tangle of hair whipped around her in the salty breeze, “Where is the, um--”

“Home?” Draco finished for her, softening as a blush skated across her pale features, “I haven’t stepped foot in the family Manor since I left. The property belongs to the Ministry. I live in a flat off Diagon now.”

“Off . . . Diagon Alley?” Hermione asked cautiously and he could see the spark of something begin to dance behind her eyes.

“It’s a nice space but rather sparse. Unfortunately, it’s been relegated to a bachelor pad for months now. And every summer the neighborhood fills to the brim with noisy Hogwarts students buying supplies--” He was cut off by Hermione standing up unsteadily from the wheelchair, pressing both hands against his chest for stability,

“Hush, it sounds lovely.”

“Lovely if you like the sound of 2 am wand sparks being shot off by drunk patrons from the Leaky Cauldron--” Draco continued in a flat voice. 

“Wow you’re right, it sounds utterly horrendous.” Hermione matched his tone of voice, rolling her eyes.

“Truly, and the worst part is your roommate is an unchecked workaholic who keeps dashing off to Azkaban.” He paused and made a show of thinking, “He’s rather handsome, at least.”

“You don’t say? Maybe it won’t be so bad after all.” Hermione tugged at the lapels of his cloak playfully.

“Yes, and I hear he’s mad enough to want to live under the same roof with an ex-convict.”

“Shut up.” Hermione fought a smile, smacking his chest and Draco grinned. He wrapped his arm around her waist, holding his cane as his other hand brandished the mug between them.

“Ready to head home?” He asked, looking down at her. _Home._

“Always.” She smiled up at him, taking hold of the portkey as the two of them were magically transported away from the dreary beach overlooking the North Sea, leaving behind nothing but a set of footprints, a wheelchair, and a ratty old quilt.

  
  
  


_And if I only could,_ _  
__I'd make a deal with God,_ _  
__And I'd get him to swap our places,_ _  
__Be running up that road,_ _  
__Be running up that hill,_  
 _With no problems._  
-Placebo, _Running up that Hill_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T_T Thanks to everyone who followed along, commented, and Kudo'd! I wanted to see if I could write a "bottle episode" fic and had the first draft finished over a year ago--but it took until pandemic quarantine for me to clean it up and post. Pretty fitting subject matter, I hope that anyone stuck inside during these times comes out the other side a better person.
> 
> And to all the wonderful commenters who made my day with each post; you guys are the best, hopefully see you next time a fic lodges itself in my brain and won't leave.


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